Moving Places: Relations, Return and Belonging 9781785332432

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MOVING PLACES

EASA Series Published in Association with the European Association of Social Anthropologists (EASA) Series Editor: Eeva Berglund, University of Helsinki Social anthropology in Europe is growing, and the variety of work being done is expanding. This series is intended to present the best of the work produced by members of the EASA, both in monographs and in edited collections. The studies in this series describe societies, processes and institutions around the world and are intended for both scholarly and student readership. 1. LEARNING FIELDS, Vol. 1 Educational Histories of European Social Anthropology Edited by Dorle Dracklé, Iain R. Edgar and Thomas K. Schippers

15. HEADLINES OF NATION, SUBTEXTS OF CLASS Working Class Populism and the Return of the Repressed in Neoliberal Europe Edited by Don Kalb and Gábor Halmai

2. LEARNING FIELDS, Vol. 2 Current Policies and Practices in European Social Anthropology Education Edited by Dorle Dracklé and Iain R. Edgar

16. ENCOUNTERS OF BODY AND SOUL IN CONTEMPORARY RELIGIOUS PRACTICES Anthropological Reflections Edited by Anna Fedele and Ruy Llera Blanes

3. GRAMMARS OF IDENTITY/ALTERITY A Structural Approach Edited by Gerd Baumann and Andre Gingrich

17. CARING FOR THE ‘HOLY LAND’ Filipina Domestic Workers in Israel Claudia Liebelt

4. MULTIPLE MEDICAL REALITIES Patients and Healers in Biomedical, Alternative and Traditional Medicine Edited by Helle Johannessen and Imre Lázár

18. ORDINARY LIVES AND GRAND SCHEMES An Anthropology of Everyday Religion Edited by Samuli Schielke and Liza Debevec

5. FRACTURING RESEMBLANCES Identity and Mimetic Conflict in Melanesia and the West Simon Harrison

19. LANDSCAPES BEYOND LAND Routes, Aesthetics, Narratives Edited by Arnar Árnason, Nicolas Ellison, Jo Vergunst and Andrew Whitehouse

6. SKILLED VISIONS Between Apprenticeship and Standards Edited by Cristina Grasseni

20. CYBERIDENTITIES AT WAR The Moluccan Conflict on the Internet Birgit Bräuchler

7. GOING FIRST CLASS? New Approaches to Privileged Travel and Movement Edited by Vered Amit

21. FAMILY UPHEAVAL Generation, Mobility and Relatedness among Pakistani Migrants in Denmark Mikkel Rytter

8. EXPLORING REGIMES OF DISCIPLINE The Dynamics of Restraint Edited by Noel Dyck

22. PERIPHERAL VISION Politics, Technology and Surveillance Catarina Frois

9. KNOWING HOW TO KNOW Fieldwork and the Ethnographic Present Edited by Narmala Halstead, Eric Hirsch and Judith Okely

23. BEING HUMAN, BEING MIGRANT Senses of Self and Well-Being Edited by Anne Sigfrid Grønseth

10. POSTSOCIALIST EUROPE Anthropological Perspectives from Home Edited by László Kürti and Peter Skalník 11. ETHNOGRAPHIC PRACTICE IN THE PRESENT Edited by Marit Melhuus, Jon P. Mitchell and Helena Wulff 12. CULTURE WARS Context, Models and Anthropologists’ Accounts Edited by Deborah James, Evelyn Plaice and Christina Toren 13. POWER AND MAGIC IN ITALY Thomas Hauschild 14. POLICY WORLDS Anthropology and the Analysis of Contemporary Power Edited by Cris Shore, Susan Wright and Davide Però

24. BEING A STATE AND STATES OF BEING IN HIGHLAND GEORGIA Florian Mühlfried 25. FLEXIBLE CAPITALISM Exchange and Ambiguity at Work Edited by Jens Kjaerulff 26. CONTEMPORARY PAGAN AND NATIVE FAITH MOVEMENTS IN EUROPE Colonialist and Nationalist Impulses Edited by Kathryn Rountree 27. FIGURATION WORK Student Participation, Democracy and University Reform in a Global Knowledge Economy Gritt B. Nielsen 28. WORLD HERITAGE ON THE GROUND Ethnographic Perspectives Edited by Christoph Brumann and David Berliner 29. MOVING PLACES Relations, Return and Belonging Edited by Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

MOVING PLACES Relations, Return and Belonging

Edited by Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

Published in 2016 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com

© 2016 Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A C.I.P. cataloging record is available from the Library of Congress British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Printed on acid-free paper

ISBN 978-1-78533-242-5 (hardback) ISBN 978-1-78533-243-2 (ebook)

Contents

Introduction1 Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič 1. The (Im)Mobility of Merantau as a Sociocultural Practice  in Indonesia Noel B. Salazar

21

2. Away, Within and Forward: Wayfaring towards Better Lives Aija Lulle

43

3. Rooting Routes: (Non-)Movements in Southern Albania Nataša Gregorič Bon

63

4. Tracing Roots: Slovenian Diaspora in Argentina and Return  85 Mobilities Jaka Repič 5. Triggering Movement in Places of Belonging: Jazz Festival  Organizers as Locals-Cosmopolitans in a Small Slovenian Town Miha Kozorog

105

6. Relational Centres in the Amazonian Landscape of Movement Pirjo Kristiina Virtanen

126

7. Displaced in the Native City: Mobilities and Locality in  Post-war Sarajevo Zaira Tiziana Lofranco

148

vi  ◆ Contents

8. From a Tent to a House, from Nomads to Settlers:  Constructions of Space and Place through Romani Narratives Alenka Janko Spreizer

172

9. Movement versus Roots? Ivory Coast – from Transnational  194 Brotherhood to Autochthony Thomas Fillitz Epilogue. Moving Places: Relations, Return and Belonging Sarah Green

211

Index223

Introduction Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

We often think of today’s world as being permeated with various movements: of people, things, information, ideas, etc. But we seldom think in that way about the places that might shift along with these movements. Here we have in mind movements that can be outlined either as geopolitical movements (global repositioning, resizing, merging and dividing of countries and regions during colonialism, post-colonialism (post-)communism, etc.), geomorphological movements (spatial changes due to earthquakes, floods, typhoons and various natural disasters or other geomorphological phenomena such as erosion, that have erased, drifted or shifted particular places on the world map) and, particularly, spatial movements and repositioning in the meshwork of social relations, which is the main scope of this volume. One example is found in the spatial processes in former Yugoslavia: both at its formation and later collapse, borders and relations between people and places changed, and these changes have had grave effects on the (im)mobility of people. Some were sedentarized (see Janko Spreizer, this volume), others exiled (see Repič, this volume) or displaced (Lofranco, this volume). This book is based on the premise that it is not only people who move but that places also shift their locations in what can be seen as a ‘meshwork’ of spatial and social relations (cf. Ingold 2009, 2011). We approach places as produced by, and conceptualized through, social and spatial relations; when movements induce changes in relation configurations, they also alter the places and reposition them in this meshwork. All the chapters, in one respect or another, illustrate the various ways and modes in which people and places in a particular geographic, political, social and historic locale move, alter spatial and social relations, and generate ‘relative locations’. Notions of mobility and movement are thus at the heart of our analysis, and we understand

2  ◆  Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

them as vital processes that engage both being and surroundings in a way that continuously results in changes of places and locations as well as relations. We posit and explore places not as fixed points on geopolitical maps but as processes, continuously redefined and relocated within a particular social, political, historical and economic setting. Places are thus ever shifting in what Sarah Green has conceptualized as the ‘whereness’ or location of places, and are fundamentally relative (Green 2005). But this does not mean that everything is prone to change and discontinuity. There is also something that stays and continues. For example, the circularity of movements and migrations, addressed by several chapters, brings territorial continuity instead of spatial rupture (de Tapia 2010; Baldassar 2011). In Moving Places, we are less concerned with the scope or intensity of mobility, and more with how people’s movement, mobility and immobility generate different experiences of places. The key question is how people make places through movement. We analyse how people, things, ideas, etc., get (re)positioned in time and place. Movement not only entails mobility but also involves place-making, whereby locations and/or people are seen as either more central or marginal, while generating imaginations and imaginaries of roots and return, locality and belonging. Movement and mobility are understood as the underlying precondition for migration. However, mobility also presents us with a face of power and inequality; while, for some people, movement is an accessible component to their lives, others are confronted with stiff restrictions, boundaries and control. Noel B. Salazar writes that migrants are often ‘depicted as icons of movement’, notwithstanding the fact that they do not spend much time moving at all, nor do they necessarily lead a mobile life (Salazar 2010: 3). This presents an important critique to the prevalent mobility discourses that argue, without adequate support from research data, how ‘the whole world is on the move’ (ibid.; cf. Friedman 2002: 33). Migration and movement are hardly novel processes, primarily characteristic of our contemporary world; rather, they go much further back in human history. Salazar and Smart (2011: ii) point out the historical meaning of mobility, and present groups of people in different areas in the world who used to be more mobile in the past than they are today. What differentiates the present movements from those in the past is their speed and the intensity of movement, both of which are inextricably connected with the fast development of communication and transport technologies as well as political and economic control (Salazar and Smart 2011: ii).

Introduction  ◆  3

In this respect, Noel B. Salazar (this volume) focuses on a historically important mobility tradition called merantau in Indonesia. This traditional practice turns on the explicit demand to return and is thus fundamentally about one’s relationship with ‘home’. Merantau experience speaks of travels that draw people closer to, rather than pushing them away from, ‘home’. Nowadays the process of merantau has led to migration, which has changed the practice of merantau and consequently shifted the meaning of ‘home’. For many Indonesians, home no longer refers to a fixed locale, but at once merges mobility and immobility, giving rise to, yet again, a ‘relative location’. While merantau has shifted from circular mobility into more permanent migration, modern travelling and communication technologies have decreased the geographical distance from the homeland. Many Indonesian migrants may have left their homeland, but they have not abandoned their home.

Movement in Anthropology The anthropological scrutiny of movement, with its spatial, social and cultural implications, stipulates a paradigmatic shift away from boundedness, fixity and cultural and territorial essentialisms. Up until the 1990s, social sciences were predominantly marked by sedentarist logic that maps and roots cultures, peoples and societies in space and time. The sedentarist attitude to movement in European intellectual tradition was a legacy of the Cartesian-derived conceptualization of ‘space’, linked with cartography and other technologies of power (Kirby 2009: 2–3). Map making and map thinking conceived of the world as an array of bounded territories to be occupied, usurped or at least politically dominated. Conventional anthropology developed notions of culture, society and identity by presupposing their essential relations to fixed entities, territories or localities. This resulted in conceptualizations of homogeneous, coherent, durable and spatially bounded or defined cultures and social entities, such as ethnic groups, nations, etc. If we conceptualize movement as a mode of being in the world, then we also need to rethink the relations between culture, identity and place (cf. Rapport and Overing 2003: 261). This is not to suggest that studies of movement were entirely absent from the early anthropological horizon. On the contrary, Bronisław Malinowski, for example, wrote about the key role of sea voyage and the function of exchange and movement of shell armbands and necklaces in sustaining the Kula ring, reciprocity and

4  ◆  Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

social institutions within and between the island communities in his pioneering study of the Kiriwina (Trobriand) Islanders (Malinowski 2005 [1922]). However, as Rapport and Overing argue, even when movement was part of an anthropological analysis, it was usually seen as an uncommon occurrence, almost an aberration, as in a ritualized journey outside ordinary space and time (Rapport and Overing 2003: 263). Moreover, human experiences of movement and their spatial implications, conceptualizations of places and relations between them, were for the most part neglected. After 1990, a marked change can be seen within anthropology and social sciences more generally towards movement. Many scholars became occupied with the various forms of mobility that reflect the general engagement with diversity, intensity, scopes and pervasiveness of global flows of modernity and their ‘implications for human life and culture’ (Hannerz 1996: 4). Anthropological studies of transnational migrations and connections not only addressed issues relating to mobility and increasing changes in the modern world because of their obvious and pervasive nature, but also because they understood that movement and change are in fact basic ‘reviving undercurrents circulating throughout social life’ (Kirby 2009: 1). The ideas of flux in mobility and of new social forms have come to the forefront of research topics in anthropology (Hannerz 1997). New concepts, such as transnationality and hybridity, were formulated, and new methodologies devised, which, taken together, have changed our understanding of culture and place in the global system (e.g., Hannerz 1997, 1998; cf. Marcus 1995). Salazar and Smart contend that numerous discourses of globalization and cosmopolitanism, which prevailed after the end of the Cold War, traversed into discourses of mobility (Salazar and Smart 2011: ii). While mobility increasingly represents the normative of the present, the attachment to a particular place is in these discourses often conceptualized as ‘a digression or resistance against globalizing forces’ (ibid.). The processes of mobility and immobility are always interrelated and interdependent, even ‘two sides of the same coin’ (see Salazar, this volume). Inspired by Cunningham and Heyman (2004), Salazar and Smart point to the political and economic processes that influence (im)mobility of people. The global flows and the means of their control (i.e. border-crossing policies) bring not only mobility and cultural connections but also immobility and disconnections. The polity borders exemplify the ways in which mobility and immobility or enclosure join (see Cunningham and Heyman 2004: 295). In this context and from a Euro-American

Introduction  ◆  5

vantage point mobility is interpreted as the ‘normal’ part of contemporary life, while immobility is seen as something ‘pejorative’ and negative. In other social contexts and situations, such as the forced migration of refugees, the immobility is conceptualized as a more positive and favoured act than mobility (Ballinger 2012; see also Lofranco, this volume).1 In such contexts, immobility is expressed in claims of rootedness and belonging, with their associated feelings of safety and being at home. It can be reflected as a right to, or as Janko Spreizer shows for Roma people in Slovenia, even a claim towards, immobility (see Janko Spreizer, this volume). The renaming of places and dividing of people, their immobility or enclosures enforced by polity borders could also be perceived as displacement of people and their meaningful places (see Lofranco, this volume).

Place-Making Plato and his student Aristotle conceptualized place as central to our understanding of the world. According to Aristotle, everything that exists has to have a place or has to be located somewhere (Casey 1996: 52). In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the study of spatial notions re-emerged in philosophy and other social sciences and humanities. These early studies of space and society, which were based on a positivistic approach and coupled with functionalism, were, in the 1970s, critically rethought by human geographers (Tuan 1974, 1977; Relph 1976) and behavioural geographers (Lowenthal 1961; Brookfield 1969; Gould and White 1974; Gold 1980), and later also by some ‘new’ archaeologists and anthropologists, especially in the fields of landscape and heritage studies (e.g., Bender 1993; Tilley 1994; Bender and Winer 2001). Space, place and society were no longer postulated as separate and autonomous, but as mutually related concepts. One of the influential spatial scholars is the neo-Marxist thinker Henri Lefebvre (1991 [1974]) who defined space as being always produced, never separated from its producing forces or the labour that shapes it. He understood space as being an inevitably social and cultural process and argued that there is a dialectical relationship between space and society, which merges them into a continuous, contingent and irreversible process. He conceptualized space as an interrelation between spatial practices (perception of space), reproduction of space (conception of space) and representational space (lived space). It cannot be viewed as absolute or ‘a space-in-itself’,

6  ◆  Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

nor does the notion of space contain a space within itself (1991: 299). Lefebvre refused to differentiate between place and space, since this would reduce the meaningfulness of spatial terms used in a particular local community. In contrast to Lefebvre, who focused on the spatial production, Michel de Certeau (1984) centred his attention on the individual practices of everyday life. He differentiated between the ‘spatial strategies’ through which the dominant powers deploy their discipline and control, and ‘spatial tactics’ used by groups or individuals to avoid the nets of discipline. While space (espace) is the effect of operations that ‘orient it, situate it, temporalize it, and make it function in a polyvalent unity of conflictual programs or contractual proximities’, place (lieu) is the ‘order (of whatever kind) in accord with which the elements are distributed in relationships of coexistence’ (1984: 117). In other words, space is ‘actuated by the ensemble of movements deployed within it’, place is an ‘instantaneous configuration of positions’ (ibid.). Spatial operations, such as walking, storytelling, remembering, writing and reading, were the key processes for studying place and space, which constantly transforms places into spaces and spaces into places (1984: 118). Tim Ingold (1993, 2000) looks at the production of place from a ‘dwelling perspective’. In defining the concept of dwelling, he refers to the etymological meaning of the term, as it was proposed by Heidegger (Ingold 2000: 185). ‘To build’ or in German bauen comes from the Old English and High German word buan, meaning ‘to dwell’ (ibid.). Dwelling encompasses one’s life in a place, which means that an individual’s perspective of himself is always set in an environment. The knowledge, which is defined as the generative potential of a complex process, of the environment is continuously formed alongside movements of a human being in the world (2000: 230). ‘We know as we go, not before we go’ (ibid., italics original). In his later work, Ingold opposes the concept of space: it is ‘the most abstract, the most empty, the most detached from the realities of life and experience’ (Ingold 2009: 29) and instead suggests using the term ‘world’ (Ingold 2011: 142). Tim Ingold’s place is ‘delineated by movement, not by the outer limits to movement’ (Ingold 2009: 34, cf. 2011). A variety of ways and directions that movements produce are drawn into sets of lines creating a meshwork or a ‘world’ of dwelling. Human dwelling unfolds in a meshwork of lines, not a network of points or places (Ingold 2011: 10). Ingold’s inspiring conceptual relations between movement, which he calls wayfaring, and places, shows that places

Introduction  ◆  7

are made through wayfaring, hence movement is a process most intrinsic to human life. Further extension of his argument leads us to another issue: relationality. Despite their different approaches, Doreen Massey similarly views space as a product of relations between people, places and things. But unlike Ingold, Massey (2005) argues ‘for space’ and defines it as a product of interrelations or simultaneity of stories-so-far: space is ‘an emergent product of relations’. She understands space as ‘the social dimension’, because it unfolds as interaction whereas time unfolds as a change (Massey 2005: 61). Unlike various scholars who concur that we live in spatial times (Laclau 1990; Jameson 1991), Massey argues that time is injected into the spatial and thus the space should be thought of together with time. She defines space as ‘the dimension of multiple trajectories, a simultaneity of stories-so-far’ (Massey 2005: 24). Space is lively and constitutes ‘multiplicity of durations’ (Massey 2005: 24). In paraphrasing her words, places discussed in this volume, the Indonesian archipelago (Salazar), island of Guernsey (Lulle), Buenos Aires (Repič), a southern Albanian village (Gregorič Bon), the Manchineri reserve in Western Brazil (Virtanen), Sarajevo (Lofranco), etc., are each on a different trajectory, yet, at a given moment or period in time, they might also be in contact with each other. But these relations do not mean that they form the same time-space. Time and space form multiple durations and trajectories which are irreversible. In other words, ‘space is not static, nor time spaceless’ (Massey 1994: 264). Space and time are different yet inextricably linked dimensions. Homecoming, for example, evokes uniquely spatial times as experience of place is bound with temporality of movement and absence. Gregorič Bon (this volume) shows how Himara people who have moved to Athens affirm their roots of belonging with routes of annual returning home. Slovenians in diaspora also affirm or alter relations with their (parental) homeland: returning reconfigures relationships between social memories, actual experiences and aspirations towards home-place (Repič, this volume). Janko Spreizer (this volume) shows how denial and claim of autochthony of Roma people is grounded in the temporality of their movement and settling. Movement, thus, always happens in space and time. This volume shows how different modes of movements carve out the perspective of time, which can move backward in the past, stay still in the present, move forward into the future or constitute a rhythm of bouncing back and forth. Mobility is a complex process and thus should always be understood as the continuum between movement and stasis. To begin with this perspective, we take up three interrelated themes that

8  ◆  Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

regularly come up in discussions of mobility and movements: (a) roots and return, (b) centre-margin implications, and (c) claims of locality and belonging.

Roots and Return Returning is a form of mobility that stems from specific conceptua­ lization of places (e.g., home, homeland). Migration and transnational studies occasionally focus on the issues of return, but, more extensively, the topic has been explored within diaspora studies and studies of violence, displacement and repatriation. In migration studies, return is sometimes discussed in conjunction with transatlantic migration, for example seasonal labour migration between Southern Europe and the Americas or other forms of ‘counter-currents’ accompanying any major migration phenomena. Still, the conventional take on migration coming from this discipline sees migration as a once-and-only occurrence (Gmelch 1980: 135), rather than as a process with diverse and far-reaching consequences. King and Christou are right to point out that, until recently, migration studies have often exaggerated their focus on immigration and overlooked the question of return (King and Christou 2011). All other forms of return were largely neglected. This is because migration studies often argues that there is no analytical value in exploring return migration as a distinct category, since the transnational research paradigm has, once and for all, reconceptualized emigration and return. Return, in other words, can be analysed just as ‘another kind of immigration’ (Čapo Žmegač 2010: 241). On the contrary, we argue that an analysis of various return mobilities, root migration or migration to an ancestral homeland, as well as tourism, pilgrimages etc., can yield important insights into the specific modes of return. In this, we forward some of the arguments already made within recent migration studies, with their emphasis on transnational connections, diasporic identities as well as return mobilities. These have addressed issues of culturally essentialist concepts of ‘roots’, home and ancestral/parental homeland, and the political role of nation states and diasporas in return movement in novel ways (see e.g., Brah 1996; Rapport and Dawson 1998; Repič 2006, 2012; Jansen and Löfving 2009a, 2009b). There is, however, a pressing need to focus more on the emic perspective of movement and explore how people define their position in relation to particular places and their cultural meanings (especially home and homeland as assertion, or denial, of roots and autochthony).

Introduction  ◆  9

Diaspora studies, in particular, have placed great emphasis on the concepts, memories and imaginaries of home and homeland, the myths of return (e.g., Anwar 1979; Clifford 1997; Brubaker 2005), but also on practices and politics of building and maintaining ties with homeland (remittances, economic relations, kin obligations, etc.), and various return mobilities and home-making (Rapport and Dawson 1998; Ahmed 1999; Ahmed et al. 2003). In this volume, Aija Lulle focuses on return mobilities and relational spaces of mobility experienced by Latvian migrant workers on the Channel island of Guernsey. Her exploration of ways in which migrants experience mobilities, opportunities and constraints of limited/temporal embeddedness in Guernsey leads her to approach movement as a process, a life trajectory or a way of being, while the places to, and through which, people move are seen to be relational spaces of mobility. Narratives of home and places of residence encapsulate this relationality and blend layers of spatial positioning, concepts of temporality and returning. Similarly, Jaka Repič explores relations between conceptualization of roots and homeland, and mythology, politics and practices of return mobilities in the Slovenian diasporic community in Argentina. Return is often referred to as tracing roots and represents movement between spatial and temporal dimensions, comprising layers and sediments of experiences, memories and imaginaries. Home and homeland are explored as places not spatially fixed but produced through relations and movement. Multiplacedness of home among the Slovenians in Argentina is apparent in their imaginaries, memories and return mobilities. Return also instigates changes in spatial relations as well as relations between social memories, present experiences and aspirations for future mobilities. Myths of return are often expressed in sedentarist logic of rootedness, from which human beings are supposed to derive their culture and identity. Cultural and national essentialisms are reflected in discourses and concepts of roots, home or homeland that are constructed as spatially as well as culturally meaningful concepts. If people have voluntarily or compulsorily left their home (were uprooted), their or their descendants’ return represents emplacement. Aspirations and mythology of eventual return are often manifested in the construction of homeland as well as in the process of home-coming or ‘regrounding’ (cf. Ahmed 1999; Olwig 2002; Ahmed et al. 2003; Stefansson 2004). Studies of returning and home orientation therefore problematize spatial and cultural essentialisms, and advance our understanding of transnational or diasporic identification processes and related issues of fixity and mobility. They also address the temporal dimension, i.e.

10  ◆  Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

relations between different referential points on the time axis (see Lulle; Repič, this volume). In movement, especially in displacement, temporality is often implied in experiences of discontinuity and loss: home is left behind not only in another place but also in another time (Jansen and Löfving 2009b: 15; see also Lofranco, this volume). Return mobilities encompass return migrations of first-generation migrants as well as of their descendants, but also visits to reconnect with relatives, tourism and travel, pilgrimages, etc. Nataša Gregorič Bon analyses the relationship between rootedness and movement to and from a number of villages in the Himara area of southern Albania. She explores how the seasonal return of Himara people to their natal villages, their visits to the coastal plains and pilgrimages to Stavridi shape their feelings of home and belonging. The return movements and pilgrimages are seen as tropes of a route with temporal and spatial implications related to the emigrant’s claims to roots and their home. In today’s shifting economic and political relations, the meaning of home relates as much to a group’s sense of rootedness in that particular location as it does to their continuous movements and migrations. Movement and mobility cannot be understood without the role of the body. While the interest in the body movement has long existed within anthropology (e.g., Mauss 1973), several studies of various kinds of movement, such as physical labour (Keller and Keller 1996), sports (Dyck and Archetti 2003), dance (Williams 1997), and other modes of body movement have mainly focused on the movement of material bodies (see McDonald 2011). In this volume we discuss the body movement as dynamically embodied action (see Virtanen, this volume). Accordingly, Pirjo Kristiina Virtanen explores various forms of movement of Manchineri Indians of Western Amazonia in Brazil who move between their own village and places outside it. She focuses on the embodied experiences of movement. Movement and corporeal transformations are important elements of Manchineri well-being, for example during hunting and looking for forest resources, which play a crucial part in their everyday lives. The same holds true for moving to urban areas and interacting with non-Indians. These enable the embodying of non-Indians’ ways of making new knowledge and power, as in conducting politics. While the centres of encounters with the non-kin contribute to economic, political, cultural and social sustenance, places of the kin are valued as places of maximization of relatedness and maintain the centrality in the Manchineri’s view of the world.

Introduction  ◆  11

Relations: From Centre to Margin and Back Again ‘Places are like ships, moving around and not necessarily staying in one location’ (Sheller and Urry 2006: 214). They are relational and evolving processes as ‘people are never alone with their places and never constitute them as places on their own’ (Green 2005: 90). In their various ways of moving through, in and between particular places, and through distinctions between these movements, people ascribe different meanings to places that are subjected to spatial hierarchy. Miha Kozorog’s chapter shows the ways in which migration out of a small Slovenian town in Cerkno and a concomitant lack of inbound movement can lead to spatial peripherality and marginality as a related structure of feeling. His study of local music festival organizers from small towns situated on the ‘periphery’ of Slovenia shows them as seeking to turn their towns into ‘cosmopolitan places’ and constitute themselves as ‘being at home in the world’. Behind this kind of place-making stands the organizers’ lingering feeling of marginality, stemming from lack of movement and from geographical peripherality. Feelings of marginality motivate the organizers of a jazz festival to bring in international crowds, move their place out of a peripheral position by making it a festival location and putting it on the global (jazz) map. Kozorog demonstrates how, for the time of the music festival, the festival organizers see their once peripheral towns as central nodes of global musicscapes as people come from various parts of the world. Once the music festival is over, these temporarily ‘cosmopolitan places’ bounce back into the periphery (but not entirely) and become local towns again, lacking, according to the music festival organizers, movement and centrality. In contrast to Kozorog who shows how festival organizers intentionally induce the global movement of festivalgoers to counter the marginality of the place, Alenka Janko Spreizer’s chapter illustrates how the frequency of movement can engender marginality of people and places. She demonstrates how a self-proclaimed discipline of ‘romology’ is, in fact, based on the myth of Roma people as ‘restless nomads’ and grounded in the sedentarist logic that roots people in space and time, but serves the state policy of discrimination, and constitutes the Roma people as a marginal group inhabiting, or moving through, marginal places. Roma people’s social marginality is grounded in their past movements and even essentialized in romological discourses, and state and local policies.

12  ◆  Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

However, discourses of sedentarism and marginality also enable the Roma people from Krško in Slovenia to make their own claims of being an ‘autochthonous ethnic population’ of Slovenia. These claims are based on Roma people’s narratives about their past movements and present homecomings through which they appropriate their place of dwelling and reconstitute their locality and belonging. Status and power that pertain to places are continuously renegotiated in what Green defines the ‘whereness’ or location of places (Green 2005: 13). Some places are thus perceived as being more central or marginal than others. The festivals as crossroads of paths and cultures where different people and ideas from various places meet and intersect (see Kozorog, this volume), the Roma people’s narratives about past movements and present homecomings (see Janko Spreizer, this volume), and the Manchineri movements outside their reserve (see Virtanen, this volume), are all examples that give credence to such relative, moving places. Some people and places are more mobile than others and many remain immobile. On the positive side, mobility as ‘ability to move’ is a form of social capital creating feelings of freedom (see Gregorič Bon, this volume) and/or cosmopolitan subjectivities (e.g., tourists, modern nomads) (see Kozorog, this volume), while on the negative side, it can be associated with deprivation and suffering, as for example with economic migrants, refugees and other modes of displacement (see Janko Spreizer; Lofranco, this volume). Indeed, there is a world of difference between those who can move freely (apparent especially at border crossings), and those whose movements are restricted: between tourists and economic migrants; between those who move voluntarily and those who are forced to move, and, ultimately, between those who move and those who stay behind. The kind of spatial hierarchy inherent in people’s movements and locations constitutes, in Massey’s (2005) terms, geography of power/ knowledge. Following on from Green (2005) and Massey (2005), the centre-marginality dimension that is made through (im)mobility can be seen as interrelated and interdependent. An increase in the multitude and scope of global and transnational relations has done much to eradicate the classical concepts of distances by bringing marginal places into central positions, as for example in Kozorog’s case. Massey calls these moments where the spatial is no longer bounded and there is no difference between near and far, centre and margin, as events marking ‘the end of modernity’ (2005: 70; 92). Her analysis pertains to broader, geographicallybased conceptualizations where the spatial is often seen to exclude

Introduction  ◆  13

the social, at least in people’s everyday experiences and practices. Massey’s conceptualization of marginality importantly moves beyond binary oppositions and the modernist confidence in clear spatiotemporal dimensions, which, according to her, are part and parcel of the same problem. Instead of clear-cut sets of opposite binaries, Green introduces the notion of ‘relational fragmentation’ where ‘every fragment is a fraction, a part of something else, and it is the relationship between the parts, their fundamental interrelationality as it were, that renders something fractal’ (Green 2005: 130). Places, in this perspective, can then be seen as marginal given one set of social, political and historical determinations (see Kozorog, this volume), and central given another (see Virtanen, this volume). The difference between centre and periphery is thus porous, dependent on the mutual relations and on the vantage point.

Claims of Locality and Belonging Mobility and movement are also closely bound up with identityformation processes, often reflected in claims of locality and belonging. Nadia Lovell (1998) argues that these claims have gained in importance, ever since displacement, dislocation and dispossession have become common themes of the present world. In the globalizing world, ever more people claim their identities as deeply rooted in the local, thus the link to a particular locality gives a strong territorial capacity (Geschiere 2009). Even though Appadurai claims that locality has lost its ontological mooring, seeing it as ‘primarily relational and contextual’ (1996: 204) rather than spatial, we argue that spatiality still presents an important mooring to which people link their claims of belonging. In this view, Zaira Lofranco explores locality by showing interconnectedness between movement and spatial relationality and positionality. Her ethnographic focus in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, is on the Inter Entity Boundary Line established partly during the war and formalized by the Dayton peace agreement in 1995, an ethnic boundary that separates the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina from the Republika Srpska (the Serbian republic). She analyses the various forms of movement, from displacement and ethnic cleansing during the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina to contemporary practices of border crossings by those Sarajevo residents who were displaced or forcibly relocated because of ethnonational politics aiming to produce ethnically homogeneous urban

14  ◆  Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

spaces. During the war, the ethnic boundary was marked by military control, violence, displacement and ethnic cleansing. Movement was heavily restricted across the line imposed by the military. After the war, the line eventually became largely invisible, but it remained an important factor in daily movements and crossings, reaffirming ethnic, social and urban divisions and hierarchic spatial organization and spatial practices, such as street naming, etc. The production of locality and thus relational spatial positions are inherently connected to movement, which is understood not merely as a change of position in a geographical space, but as a sociocultural dynamic. Claims of locality and belonging are part of power relations or political and state assertions of power. They are manifested in the use of culturally and spatially essentialist concepts that presuppose important links between locality, culture and belonging or identity. Roots and autochthony are often politically instigated concepts that give rise to claims of spatial appropriation, belonging, denial of belonging or even social exclusion (cf. Geschiere 2009). Citizenship politics depends on enforcing the link between the individuals and the state as a spatial referent. Changes in citizenship politics can restrict or encourage movement within the state and across its borders as well as bring about changes in spatial relations, i.e., distant places can become reachable and familiar places can drift away from people’s imaginaries and itineraries. Several of the chapters touch upon the influence of citizenship politics on changes in spatial relations. Aija Lulle shows how Latvia’s inclusion in the EU facilitated their citizens’ back-and-forth migration between Latvia and Guernsey, regardless of their diverse personal motivations. Most explicitly in this volume, Thomas Fillitz shows the imminent role of the state in determining relationships between citizens, foreigners and national territory, and producing, restricting or reversing migration flows, thus affecting individual experiences of movement and places. He explores relations between the state, politics of roots and belonging, citizenship and mobility in the Ivory Coast, West Africa. He shows that cultural rooting is a constitutive process to local productions of contemporary modernity. In different periods between the 1960s and early 2000s, state ideologies of brotherhood extending across borders gradually gave way to essentialist concepts of roots and autochthony, imposed by nationalist and citizenship politics for goals of social differentiation and exclusion. Political transition, from a state that did not differentiate between its citizens and foreigners (citizens from neighbouring states) to a nation state based on cultural concepts of autochthony and ethno-cultural citizenship, had important

Introduction  ◆  15

consequences for internal and transnational mobility and politics of cultural rooting. State ideologies of inclusion initially produced massive internal and transnational migration, whereas the shift towards the ideology of autochthony not only limited immigration but also brought about a highly selective access to power, land and resources. Moreover, state ideologies controlled movements and changed processes of spatialization, e.g., from customary land of autochthonous communities to liberalization of access to land and later towards state sovereignty over it. Moving Places brings several case studies pertaining to placemaking, (non-)movement and (im)mobility from scholars working on Albania, Argentina, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Brazilian Amazonia, Guernsey, Indonesia, the Ivory Coast and Slovenia. Despite the fact that national territories often play a significant role in the way that people experience their movements and places (see Fillitz, this volume), our primary interest is to explore various local contexts and not respective national territories. We aim to show how multiple relations between people and places constitute different place-times and relative locations. Taken together, contributors to this book highlight how places and their locations are continuously shifting and are redefined through (non-)movements and vice versa. As one of the most immanent processes of human life, movement has various dimensions and modes. By addressing the specifics of a particular regional and social locale, each chapter in its spatial and temporal dimensions simultaneously illustrates stories of physical (non-)movements and moving places. Jaka Repič is Associate Professor and Researcher at the Department of Ethnology and Cultural Anthropology, Faculty of Arts, University of Ljubljana. He writes about Slovenian diaspora in Argentina and return mobilities. His earlier research includes rural-urban migration and informal settlements in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, and ethnicity issues among the Roma in Slovenia. He is the author of ‘Tracing the Roots’: Transnational Migrations between Argentina and Europe, Urbanisation and Construction of Ethnic Communities in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea and co-editor of Places of Encounter. Nataša Gregorič Bon is a Research Fellow at the Institute of Anthropological and Spatial Studies of the Research Centre of the Slovenian Academy of Sciences and Arts (ZRC SAZU) and Assistant Professor at the Postgraduate School ZRC SAZU. She has published widely on spatial anthropology, Europeanization, movement

16  ◆  Nataša Gregorič Bon and Jaka Repič

and mobility in southern Albania. She is the author of Spaces of Discordance: Space and Place in the Village of Dhërmi/Drimades, Southern Albania (ZRC Publishing House), which is also translated into Albanian. She is a book review editor for the Anthropological Notebooks journal.

Acknowledgements The idea for this book emerged from discussions at the Beyond Essentialisms: Challenges of Anthropology in the 21st Century conference, organized by the Department of Ethnology and Cultural Anthropology at the University of Ljubljana in November 2010. Some of the contributors to this volume took part in the conference, while others were part of the COST IS0803 Action Remaking Eastern Borders in Europe chaired by Sarah F. Green, University of Helsinki. Without these two events, this book would not have been possible. The book is also partly a result of the Bilateral Collaboration between the republics of Slovenia and Finland, entitled Movement and Spatial Construction, and the project Ethnography of Land and Water Routes, both funded by the Slovenian Research Agency. We are grateful for its support. We thank all the contributors for their invaluable help, patience and comments on chapters. Our gratitude goes to Ana Jelnikar and Linda Bates for their masterful proofreading. The editors are grateful to their institutions, the Research Centre of the Slovenian Academy of Sciences and Arts and the Department of Ethnology and Cultural Anthropology at the University of Ljubljana for financial assistance and support throughout this project.

Notes  1. Ballinger also draws attention to different concepts related to (im) mobility such as emplacement, displacement, replacement, etc., which invite various meanings in particular linguistic contexts.

Introduction  ◆  17

References Ahmed, S. 1999. ‘Home and Away. Narratives of Migration and Estrangement’, International Journal of Cultural Studies 2(3): 329–47. Ahmed, S., C. Castañeda, A. Fortier and M. Sheller (eds). 2003. Uprootings/ Regroundings. Questions of Home and Migration. Oxford and New York: Berg. Anwar, M. 1979. The Myth of Return. Pakistanis in Britain. London: Heinemann. Appadurai, A. 1996. Modernity at Large. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Baldassar, L. 2011. ‘Italian Migrants in Australia and their Relationship to Italy. Return Visits, Transnational Caregiving and the Second Generation’, Journal of Mediterranean Studies 20(2): 1–28. Ballinger, P. 2012. ‘Borders and the Rhythms of Displacement, Emplacement and Mobility’, in T.M. Wilson and D. Hastings (eds), A Companion to Border Studies. Malden, Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, pp. 389–404. Bender, B. (ed.). 1993. Landscape. Politics and Perspectives. Oxford: Berg. Bender, B. and M. Winer (eds). 2001. Contested Landscapes. Movement, Exile and Place. Oxford and New York: Berg. Brah, A. 1996. Cartographies of Diaspora. Contesting Identities. London and New York: Routledge. Brookfield, H.C. 1969. ‘On the Environment as Perceived’, Progress in Geography 1: 53–80. Brubaker, R. 2005. ‘The “Diaspora” Diaspora’, Ethnic and Racial Studies 28(1): 1–19. Casey, E. 1996. ‘How to Get from Space to Place in a Fairly Short Stretch of Time. Phenomenological Prolegomena’, in S. Feld and K. Basso (eds), Senses of Place. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, pp. 13–52. de Certeau, M. 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: University of California Press. Clifford J. 1997. ‘Diasporas’, in M. Guibernau and J. Rex (eds), The Ethnicity Reader. Nationalism, Multiculturalism and Migration. Cambridge and Oxford: Polity Press, pp. 283–90. Cunningham, H. and J. Heyman. 2004. ‘Introduction. Mobilities and Enclosures at Borders’, Identities. Global Studies in Culture and Power 11: 289–302. Čapo Žmegač, J. 2010. ‘Return Migration. The Changing Faces and Challenging Facets of a Field of Study’, Ethnologia Balkanica 14: 227–45. Dyck, N. and E.P. Archetti. 2003. Sport, Dance and Embodied Identities. Oxford: Berg. Eriksen, T.H. 2007. Globalization. The Key Concepts. Oxford and New York: Berg.

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Friedman, J. 2002. ‘From Roots to Routes. Tropes for Trippers’, Anthropological Theory 2: 21–36. Geschiere, P. 2009. The Perils of Belonging. Autochthony, Citizenship, and Exclusion in Africa and Europe. Chicago and London: Chicago University Press. Gmelch, G. 1980. ‘Return Migration’, Annual Review of Anthropology 9: 135–59. Gold, J.R. 1980. An Introduction to Behavioural Geography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gould, P. and R. White. 1974. Mental Maps. England: Penguin Books. Green, S.F. 2005. Notes from the Balkans. Locating Marginality and Ambiguity on the Greek-Albanian Border. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Hannerz, U. 1996. Transnational Connections. Culture, People, Places. London and New York: Routledge. ———. 1997. ‘Flows, Boundaries and Hybrids. Keywords in Transnational Anthropology’. Retrieved 28 September 2014 from ———. 1998. ‘Transnational Research’, in H. Bernard Russell (ed.), Handbook of Methods in Cultural Anthropology. Walnut Creek and Lanham: Altamira Press, pp. 235–56. Ingold, T. 1993. ‘The Temporality of the Landscape. World Archaeology’, Conceptions of Time in Ancient Society 25(2): 153–74. ———. 2000. The Perception of the Environment. Essays in Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. London and New York: Routledge. ———. 2009. ‘Against Space. Place, Movement, Knowledge’, in P.W. Kirby (ed.), Boundless Worlds. An Anthropological Approach to Movement. Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books, pp. 29–43. ———. 2011. Being Alive. Essays on Movements, Knowledge and Description. London and New York: Routledge. Jameson, F. 1991. Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism. London: Verso. Jansen, S. and S. Löfving (eds). 2009a. Struggles for Home. Violence, Hope and the Movement of People. Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books. ———. 2009b. ‘Introduction. Towards an Anthropology of Violence, Hope and the Movement of People’, in S. Jansen and S. Löfving (eds), Struggles for Home. Violence, Hope and the Movement of People. Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books, pp. 1–23. Keller, C.M. and J. Dixon Keller. 1996. Cognition and Tool Use. The Blacksmith at Work. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. King, R. and A. Christou. 2011. ‘Of Counter-Diaspora and Reverse Transnationalism. Return Mobilities to and from the Ancestral Homeland’, Mobilities 6(4): 451–66. Kirby, P.W. 2009. ‘Lost in “Space”. Anthropological Approach to Movement’, in P.W. Kirby (ed.), Boundless Worlds. An Anthropological

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Approach to Movement. Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books, pp. 1–27. Laclau, E. 1990. New Reflections on the Revolution of Our Time (Phronesis Series). London: Verso. Lefebvre, H. 1991 [1974]. The Production of Space, trans. D. NicholsonSmith. Oxford: Blackwell. Lovell, N. (ed.). 1998. Locality and Belonging. London and New York: Routledge. Lowenthal, D. 1961. ‘Geography, Experience, and Imagination. Towards a Geographic Epistemology’, Annals of the Association of American Geographers 51: 241–60. Malinowski, B. 2005 [1922]. Argonauts of the Western Pacific. An Account of Native Enterprise and Adventure in the Archipelagos of Melanesian New Guinea. London: Routledge. Marcus, G.E. 1995. ‘Ethnography in/of the World System. The Emergence of Multi-Sited Ethnography’, Annual Review of Anthropology 24: 95–117. Massey, D. 1994. Space, Place, and Gender. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. ———. 2005. For Space. Los Angeles: Sage. Mauss, M. 1973. ‘Techniques of the Body’, Economy and Society 2: 70–88. McDonald, E. 2011. ‘Transnationalism. Bodies-in-Motion. Experiences of Momentum in Transnational Surgery’, in F.E. Mascia-Lees (ed.), A Companion to the Anthropology of the Body and Embodiment (Blackwell Companions to Anthropology). Malden and Oxford: WileyBlackwell, pp. 481–503. Olwig, K.F. 2002. ‘A Wedding in the Family. Home Making in a Global Kin Network’, Global Networks 2(3): 205–18. Rapport, N. and A. Dawson (eds). 1998. Migrants of Identity. Perceptions of Home in a World of Movement. Oxford: Berg. Rapport, N. and J. Overing. 2003. Social and Cultural Anthropology. The Key Concepts. London and New York: Routledge. Relph, E. 1976. Place and Placelessness. London: Pion Limited. Repič, J. 2006. ‘Po sledovih korenin’. Transnacionalne migracije med Argentino in Evropo. Ljubljana: Filozofska fakulteta. ———. 2012. ‘Les Slovènes d’Argentine. Le concept de patrie dans la construction d’une communauté diasporique’, Ethnologie française 42(2): 231–40. Salazar, N.B. 2010. Envisioning Eden. Mobilizing Imaginaries in Tourism and Beyond (New Directions in Anthropology Series). Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books. Salazar, N.B. and A. Smart. 2011. ‘Anthropological Takes on (Im)mobility’, Identities. Global Studies in Culture and Power 18: i–ix. Sheller, M. and J. Urry. 2006. ‘The New Mobilities Paradigm’, Environment and Planning 38: 207–26.

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Stefansson, A.H. 2004. ‘Homecomings to the Future. From Diasporic Mythographies to Social Projects of Return’, in F. Markowitz and A.H. Stefansson (eds), Homecomings. Unsettling Paths of Return. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, pp. 2–21. de Tapia, S. 2010. ‘New Migratory Configurations. Transnationalism/s, Diaspora/s, Migratory Circulation’, in C. Audebert and M.K. Doraï (eds), Migration in a Globalised World. New Research Issues and Prospects. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, pp. 127–144. Tilley, C. 1994. A Phenomenology of Landscape. Places, Paths and Monuments. Oxford: Berg. Tuan, Y.-F. 1974. Topophilia. A Study of Environmental Perspective of Experience. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. ———. 1977. Space and Place. The Perspective of Experience. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Williams, D. 1997. Anthropology and Human Movement. The Study of Dances. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press.

1 The (Im)Mobility of Merantau as a Sociocultural Practice in Indonesia Noel B. Salazar

Anthropology has developed greatly, as a discipline, through the study of (small) island societies. Many early anthropological interpretations, however, focused on internal processes so exclusively that inter-island exchange networks were easily overlooked. However, conceptions of both ‘other’ and ‘self’, as well as notions of ‘travel’ and ‘home’, have stemmed from these mobile interactions (Tagliacozzo 2009). Like places or locations more generally, ‘home’ is not conceptualized as fixed and static but as being generated through various and often messy relations between people and places (cf. Green 2013). As various chapters in this volume show, movement often involves placemaking. On the islands of Vanuatu, for example, trees are a widespread symbol of stability, while canoes, like any other means of transport, index motion. The metaphorical image of crafting canoes out of trees captures the idea that movement can help to gain social stability (Bonnemaison 1984). Similarly, in insular Southeast Asia, the boat has traditionally been a metaphor for the ‘ordered social group’. The boat metaphor, in Indonesia in particular, refers to an ‘ocean-going society’ but also a ‘disciplined’ and ‘hierarchical’ social system that is necessary for ‘safety and great mobility’ (Wolters 1999: 180). Indonesia is an archipelago of more than six thousand inhabited islands in Asia Pacific, at the crossroads of Southeast Asia and Oceania. Its scattered geography has been conducive to mobility between, and beyond, the islands, including complex systems of circular movements and various forms of migration and cross-cultural

22  ◆  Noel B. Salazar

mixing. While local mobilities are indigenous rather than a result of foreign contact (Bedford 1973; Chapman and Prothero 1985), the abundance of valuable natural resources meant that the Indonesian archipelago became a particularly important long-distance trade hub from at least the seventh century bce. In addition to traders and itinerant merchants, people travelled to escape conflicts, in search of work, following their loved one(s) or religious beliefs. In this chapter, I explore the widespread occurrence of various forms of mobility between and beyond the Indonesian islands, and such mobilities communicate about imaginaries of ‘home’ and practices of belonging.1 Today, many Indonesians are engaged in a combination of short and temporary, as well as long-term and long-distance, travels, driven by both sociocultural and economic motivations. It is important to place these contemporary movements in the context of a long history of (im)mobility.2 Some of these mobilities have been explained as a cultural characteristic (Tirtosudarmo 2009). In this chapter, however, it becomes clear that the factors determining a ‘culture of mobility’ are highly complex and variable (cf. Salazar 2010b). It takes a number of forms, both over time and in different places, including internal, regional and transnational movements. It cuts across gender, class and skill boundaries, and exists in widely different demographic contexts. I argue that translocal movements among people with limited mobility resources are highly mediated, not only by regulations and brokers but also by ‘modern’ technologies. This assemblage of elements has changed the relation between people and places, nearby and further (and further) away, and the ‘relative location’ (Green 2013) of the ‘homeland’ and the envisioned return to it within the patterns of mobility in which people engage.

Moving Histories Mobility is part of people’s life experience across much of the Indonesian archipelago (Tirtosudarmo 2009).3 As historian Adrian Vickers argues, ‘the element of mobility is the starting point of a critical social history of Indonesia’ (2004: 305). The original populations of the islands were sparse and, by necessity, geographically mobile. In the precolonial period, trade and other interactions were conducted via inter-island routes. Not all movement was long-distance or by sea. Shifting cultivators, too, were accustomed to resettling in search of new land, which was abundant (Vickers 2004). The entire

The (Im)Mobility of Merantau as a Sociocultural Practice in Indonesia  ◆  23

archipelago was a borderless space where constant exchanges took place. A certain ‘wanderlust’ has been ascribed to particular ethnic groups such as the Bugis, Minangkabau, Boyanese and Banjarese. Even those groups usually regarded as being more sedentary (e.g., the Balinese) have histories of migration and movement. The arrival of foreign traders further expanded mobility in the region. The different patterns, directions and motivations of movement became severely affected by colonialism. Mobilities intensified and new forms were introduced, particularly state-sponsored migration and contract work. For the Dutch colonial administration, however, sedentary communities were a political, economic and social ideal. From the nineteenth century onwards, the household, village, land survey, census, map and school were among the technologies of rule used to control people’s movements (Lowe 2003). Control of the coasts and seas was also important in this regard. The free and unrestricted (semi-)nomadic wanderings of peoples posed serious problems to the colonizers’ bureaucracy. These movements subverted the controlling mechanisms of the state that had been erected to mediate contacts and commerce among locals. Nevertheless, some groups in the region chose to remain mobile because this had significant economic (trade), social (status) and political (independence) advantages. The postcolonial Indonesian state continued its policies along similar lines. Anna Tsing (1993), for instance, describes the attempts of the Indonesian state to control the nomadic Meratus hill peoples of Kalimantan. The Meratus are migratory hunter-gatherers, who live in constantly changing kinship units, and who are widely dispersed. Indonesian officials tried to concentrate the Meratus in planned villages near the main roads. The implicit goal was to create a fixed, concentrated population. Meratus’ immobility was the precondition of state supervision and development, whereas much of the identity of the Meratus as a people depended on ‘unhampered mobility’ (Tsing 1993: 41). In general, strong mobility traditions throughout the archipelago pattern contemporary movements and form the basis of more recent labour migration. The travels of the Bugis and Makassar peoples of South Sulawesi are among the best known examples. The Bugis took to the sea in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, mainly to escape from the dominance of the Dutch East India Company in their homeland. In so doing, they became one of the most important maritime communities in the region. Bugis ships sailed to the northern coast of Australia, where cave paintings, Aboriginal loanwords and archaeological waste attest to their presence today (Tagliacozzo 2009).

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In the eighteenth century, they began establishing pioneer settlements around the archipelago, enabling the more or less permanent migration of Bugis settlers (while retaining political ties to the ‘home’ community) but also serving as new ‘home’ bases from which to engage in circular migration (Hugo 1982). The culture of mobile boat-dwelling people across the archipelago, comprising diverse congeries of variously named groups known as orang suku laut (sea nomads), also dates back many centuries (Chou 2003). The existence of their far-reaching maritime networks across the archipelago, and beyond, reflects the almost unhampered movement that these people enjoyed historically. As Cynthia Chou (2003) points out, the rise of the nation state led to the progressive peripheralization and impoverishment of the sea nomads. Even today, they travel the seas of the archipelago, challenging the idea of citizenship as defined by bounded territories and guaranteed by a sovereign state (Lowe 2003).

Merantau The most widespread mobility tradition across the Indonesian archipelago is called merantau: ‘leaving one’s cultural territory voluntarily whether for a short or long time, with the aim of earning a living or seeking further knowledge or experience, normally with the intention of returning home’ (Naim 1976: 150).4 The rantau is about ‘foreign spaces that are, at once, unknown and to be discovered yet known, because others, ethnically connected to you, have enabled such spaces to be imagined’ (Ali 1996: 428). As Johan Lindquist (2009) observes, the explicit demand to return indicates that merantau is actually about the relationship with ‘home’ (on the practice of ‘return’ in other contexts of mobility, see Lulle; Gregorič Bon; Repič, this volume). Kinship and locality remain the principal sources of identification (Naim 1974: 292; Siegel 2000: 56) throughout Indonesia for those who enter the rantau, and it is very bad for the perantau, the one who temporarily moves in order to expand both his (or, increasingly, her) horizons and opportunities, to become ‘destitute in rantau’ (melarat di rantau), to be lost in rantau, forgotten by those staying home (Mrázek 1994: 10–11). This culturally-inflected mobility pattern has a long tradition in (western) Sumatra, particularly among the Minangkabau people, who are considered to be among the most mobile of all major ethnic groups in Indonesia (Naim 1974). Their matrilineal social structure

The (Im)Mobility of Merantau as a Sociocultural Practice in Indonesia  ◆  25

makes males (who live as guests in the homes of their wives) marginal within society, which led to merantau becoming the norm for young men, with social disapprobation being incurred if they did not conform to this pattern. Unmarried Minangkabau men travelled on the rantau, as part of the adat (customary law), to make their fortunes and feed their spirits, sometimes for long periods. In other words, ‘young single men could situate themselves within the statesanctioned role of perantau, or migratory breadwinner, whether or not they actually provided remittances for their families’ (Silvey 2000b: 149). Men living in the rantau who were already established as promising merchants were traditionally considered much more attractive as husbands than young men who were ‘left behind’ at home.5 They typically received handsome dowries from their new in-laws, adding considerable symbolic capital to their bride’s family line. The usual length of merantau was anywhere between six months and a year, after which the young men would return to the village with earnings, prestige and tales of the outside world. The stock of experience gained elsewhere helped the village to understand and adapt to the outside world, and the wiser young men, presumably having got the spirit of adventure out of their systems, could settle down into marriage and village life. To a married man, merantau meant a temporary release from two families’ conflicting expectations that weighed upon him as a husband and as a member of the maternal family. Historically, the rantau thus became a space in which the man gained more power than he could have in the matrilineal heartland (Mrázek 1994: 10–11). Among the Minangkabau, merantau is best described as a traditional ‘rite of passage’ for becoming a man (Kato 1982: 196). Being in the rantau was not only about gaining experience and a form of education, but was also a criterion by which to increase social status, not unlike the European historical ‘Grand Tour’, a culturally approved trip through Europe for young, educated, wealthy men in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, symbolizing the end of their upbringing and giving them the required social and cultural capital for a future as political leaders. Rantau journeys could reach all the way north to the tip of Sumatra, up and down the west coast of the island, to parts of the east coast (including Jambi and almost as far as Medan) and even across the Strait of Malacca to Negeri Sembilan (a Minangkabau colony in peninsular Malaysia) or further. Importantly, ‘merantau as a means to avoid being fixed to a particular social location is only possible with on-going exchanges between people separated by physical space’ (Ali 1996: 14). The rantau thus connotes

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a realm of imagined familiarity, despite the fact that many who speak of it may never themselves venture into it (cf. Salazar 2011b). This points to the important role undertaken by socially shared cultural imaginaries in making sense of translocal movements (Salazar 2010a; 2011a; 2013). Among the Minangkabau, merantau clearly functions as an institutionalized cultural complex of circular wandering. However, as Graeme Hugo rightly points out, ‘the institutionalization of a particular form of mobility, whether non-permanent or permanent, operates not only on the scale of the ethnic group but also on a regional and local scale’ (1982: 68). At the same time, merantau is culturally dependent. This is illustrated by the fact that it has had a historically different meaning in the matrilocal system in Aceh (the far north of Sumatra). There, it served as a strong incentive to go on the ‘ranto’ as Acehnese men were usually without resources until their parents died (Siegel 2000: 54). According to Acehnese adat, however, men were not allowed to travel too far from their family. Not only did merantau not have the ‘rite of passage’ characteristics it has elsewhere, it did not necessarily lead to a change in status either. It was merely a way of earning a livelihood. If a man could make a satisfactory independent income, he would simply stay at home. For the Boyanese, from the tiny island of Bawean, two hundred kilometres off the northeast coast of Java, merantau is a ‘cultural ideal’ (Vredenbregt 1964: 109). Bawean is known as the ‘Island of Women’, because almost every household has men working in either Malaysia or Singapore. This labour mobility is a societal rite of passage for young men, dating back to the seventeenth century. The Banjarese people of South Kalimantan have a long history of journeying outside their homelands, too (Hugo 1982). They have the concept of madam, which traditionally meant leaving one’s natal village and crossing the sea with the aim of increasing one’s wealth within a time period that is not fixed (but which is usually in excess of one year). Madam is used more broadly in contemporary South Kalimantan, encompassing both non-permanent and permanent moves. Many Banjarese engage in circular seasonal mobility associated with trading, especially downriver to the provincial capital of Banjarmasin. The Iban of Borneo (also known as ‘sea Dayaks’), who are spread across the Malaysian-Indonesian border, have been particularly noted for their mobility. The most important traditional form of Iban mobility was restricted to groups of young men in an institution called bejalai. Historically, bejalai, ‘to go on journeys with the view

The (Im)Mobility of Merantau as a Sociocultural Practice in Indonesia  ◆  27

of acquiring wealth, material goods and social prestige’ (Kedit 1993: 3), was an important rite of passage for young men: ‘Iban values of valour, equality and individualism support bejalai and have made it a viable institution throughout Iban history’ (Kedit 1993: 3). These (often adventurous) journeys frequently lasted for several years on end and often extended to the remotest corners of Borneo, and even to Peninsular Malaysia and other islands of Indonesia. The idea was to work, to ‘see the world’, to have noteworthy experiences and, hopefully, to return with many gifts as well as other visible signs of wealth (to add to the family’s collection of heirlooms). This was such an important cultural institution that boys were socialized early in life, mainly through stories, to be predisposed to going away for a few years on bejalai as part of their initiation into adulthood. Peter Kedit, himself an Iban, recounts how ‘cultural heroes in Iban mythology performed triumphant bejalai, undertaking feats which provide both inspiration for and a model of conduct for bejalai aspirants’ (Kedit 1993: 11). The success of activities achieved while travelling on bejalai journeys, usually in small groups and under the guidance of recognized leaders, contributed towards a bachelor’s status (and was exhibited through tattoos). Although primarily for the purposes of headhunting, the acquisition of trophy heads as evidence of bravery, travelling led to other rewards that enhanced a man’s status and his capability of acquiring a spouse. Bejalai in itself has been transformed from headhunting raids into today’s labour mobility. Iban people still go abroad to work, as mentioned, but now do so to acquire cash rather than to accrue social prestige. In the 1970s, rural men temporarily migrated to work in logging camps. Construction work in oil palm plantations and in the petrochemical industry came later in the 1980s. For rural women, the economic boom of the late 1980s and early 1990s caused them to move to urban centres. Bejalai for many Iban turned into pindah (permanent migration) when workers stopped returning home. Bejalai has gradually turned into rural-urban migration, as is characteristic in most developing countries (UNDP 2009) and, as such, it is no longer restricted to men. In the nineteenth century, the expansion of capitalist markets throughout the archipelago facilitated the rantau, but continued to be associated with particular ethnic groups. By the early twentieth century, however, ‘the rantau became a way to learn about the world; for others it was a way of engaging with progressive political forces; and for still others it was an escape from the burden of culture in a matrilineal society in which men were guests’ (Lindquist 2009: 29-30). According to Johan Lindquist (2009), merantau has become

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homogenized as a national cultural form, as increasing numbers of Indonesians have been transformed into temporary migrants in search of new forms of life and labour. After independence, mobility increased exponentially across Indonesia and, in the process, ‘merantau was unmoored from particular ethnic groups, becoming widely used throughout Indonesia and associated primarily with the new underclass rather than the country’s elite’ (Lindquist 2009: 30).6 The vicissitudes of economics and modernity have changed the practice of merantau. It no longer implies a return to the village and a sharing of experience, but rather an escape from the limited possibilities of village life. In other words, instead of being a circular movement or, in Ingold’s (2011) terminology, a kind of ‘wayfaring’, which strengthens the relationship with the ‘homeland’, merantau (and its cultural varieties) has increasingly become a one-way, linear journey of migration, wherein the meaning of ‘home’ has also changed. As a result, many villages have been drained of their young men and, in the cities, one can see groups of unemployed men sitting around smoking, chatting and hoping to find jobs. Analysing the situation on the island of Sumba, Jill Forshee observes how a haunting tension between moving about and staying put disturbs people who leave the island: Although travel marks male privilege and a growing worldliness has become a Sumbanese prestige symbol, attachment to ancestral place creates a tension in the wanderings motivated by trade and status seeking. Travel entails tremendous risks, which may result in the worst sort of annihilation—the loss of body and soul … As long-distance travel has become a regular practice for many (and a symbol of modern mobility), serious perils threaten these ventures. For those removed from their families and protective spirits, potential misfortunes (hanggamar) are causes for anxiety. (Forshee 2000: 24)

Clearly, new forms of mobility have changed the traditional relationship between people and places, and thus also the connection with ‘home’, both spatially and socially. In the same way that Sarah Green conceptualizes ‘Europe’, we could argue that home is ‘more of a contingent and relative location than it is a fixed place with particular characteristics’ (2013: 287–88). The traditional Indonesian practice of merantau illustrates this nicely. Home is a relational concept, built and rebuilt while there, away and upon one’s return (cf. Lindquist 2009). This implies that changes to the kind of journeys undertaken, in terms of both time and distance, do alter people’s understanding of ‘home’.

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Better employment opportunities and wages in neighbouring countries, and a similarity to countries with a Muslim tradition in the case of the Middle East and with shared cultural values and languages in the case of Malaysia, Brunei and Singapore, contributed to the establishment of so-called ‘traditional mobility networks’ (Spaan 1994: 93). Today, Indonesians are still following these kinds of customary circuits of mobility. Outside influences may have altered the patterns of circulation, but circulation itself has endured. At the same time, ‘the notion of timeless movement obscures the politicaleconomic dynamic that produces historically specific dislocations in life chances that motivate international migration, and it accounts for neither increased mobility over the last three decades or so, nor the specificity of flows’ (Goss and Lindquist 2000: 398). As Graeme Hugo remarks, ‘any close observer of Asia over the last two decades cannot fail to have noticed how international mobility of one kind or another has entered the calculus of choice’ for a large number of people (2005: 95). Contemporary transnational mobility in Indonesia, as in areas elsewhere, is thus the outcome of a combination of factors: traditional cultures of mobility, expanding capitalist markets and interventions by the nation state. The last decades have seen an increase not only in the numbers of Indonesians on the move but also in the types of mobility, which have themselves become more complex and less selective. The forces responsible for this are associated with ‘globalization, increased levels of education, proliferation of international media, improved transport systems, and the internationalization of business and labour markets’ (Hugo 2005: 94). Merantau certainly remains important, as witnessed by its recurrence as a theme in popular music (Barendregt 2002) and film (Evans 2009). For young adults, the cosmopolitan, distant rantau contains a future that will bring personal and public liberation from the shackles of ‘unthinking traditionalism’ (Rodgers 1995). Narratives about mobility, however, have moved to the centre of political discourse and claims over historical or contemporary mobilities have turned into a pretext for exclusion. Increasingly, Indonesians are staying in the rantau because of the better opportunities afforded elsewhere and the rantau is coming to span the entire world. As mentioned before, this has implications for the relation between the migratory movements and the meaning of ‘home’.

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Brokering Movement and Gender Most contemporary border crossings, particularly those related to labour, are closely guarded by nation states (Nyíri 2010). In Indonesia: For physical mobility to be possible, state bureaucracies have to be approached, evaded or manipulated through links with insiders the various oknums and calur (terms for linkages into bureaucratic offices). Various guards such as pengawal and tai kong assist in crossing boundaries. Many of them have come to play this role by attempting to move out of enclosing spaces themselves, and in the process, acquired the skills to deal with borders, boundaries, categories, documents and policing agents. (Ali 1996: III)7

In the case of travels to Saudi Arabia, there is a clear linkage with the religious institution and the Islamic pilgrimage or Hajj. Through their pilgrimages to Mecca, people from the Indonesian archipelago historically established contacts with networks of pilgrim brokers (Arab sheikhs), who made work and travel arrangements for them for employment in Malaya and Sabah via Singapore (Spaan 1994). In other words, the religious routes formed the basis for labour mobility. Singapore was the regional centre for Hajj labour brokers who organized Hajj labour mobilities. In general, translocal labour mobility in Indonesia has been dependent upon supposedly traditional informal patron-client networks (Rudnyckyj 2004). Brokers usually are (or have been) mobile themselves, and their networks are available to outsiders in exchange for a fee. The brokers’ essential attribute, to the agencies for which they recruit prospective workers, is their potential to recruit in their own local environment (where the agencies have no access at all). To the workers, they represent the agency and have contacts with the ‘big bosses’ far away in Jakarta or abroad, hence, the promise of the big, wide world (which is fed by social imaginaries circulating through old and new media). Yet these brokers remain part of the prospective workers’ social networks and are usually trusted by both the ‘movers’ and their families. Given changes to the global labour market, the relation between broker and worker has become increasingly marked by gender. Within the literature on transnational labour mobility, substantial attention is now being paid to the ways in which female workers experience control over, and restrictions to, their mobility (e.g., Killias 2010).

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Multiple, gendered social differences are reflected in mobility.8 Apart from labour mobility, the gendering of movement in general is engrained deeply in archipelagic culture(s). As Jill Forshee writes about the island of Sumba: The movement of men and women of eastern Sumba reflect social and ideological boundaries and various flows between existential realms … There is potential power in mobility, in securing or altering one’s place in the world by extending influence within it. Yet there is also power in resisting unwanted shifts in location and controlling limits that others might not violate. Adventure threatens to bring pollution or destruction, and human mobility challenges the stability of social life in Sumba. (Forshee 2000: 23–24)

Women’s mobility throughout the Indonesian archipelago was traditionally associated with family or marital migration (Williams 2007). Nowadays, the mobility of women is often still viewed as a disturbance, containing tensions and contradictions that require legitimation. While merantau is culturally considered to be a normal (or even normative) behaviour for men, and constitutive of Indonesian masculine identities (see above), women doing exactly the same are just main-main (drifting, literally: playing) (Silvey 2000a). Thus, the association of men and mobility versus women and immobility and the domestic sphere has a long tradition. However, through time merantau has become something that is of value for (unmarried) young women, too. This has much to do with the feminization of labour in the rantau, beginning in the late 1960s and 1970s. Women now comprise the majority of the migrant workforce, partly because demands from the global labour market tend to channel young, rural Indonesian women into overseas work (e.g., contract domestic work), while preventing men from doing so. The whole machinery involved in organizing Tenaga Kerja Wanita (TKW or overseas female labour force) has also led to the expansion of human trafficking and prostitution (Lindquist 2009). The recruitment of female workers for overseas labour is largely in the hands of men, usually the husbands, brothers or sons of women who have travelled overseas (Spaan 1994: 103). The social inappropriateness of a woman travelling unescorted into the unknown, along with the cost of travel, prevents women from leaving their villages alone. From the day of their recruitment in the village of origin until their arrival at their employer’s home abroad, female transnational workers are escorted by male brokers. As heads of kin and household, men across Indonesia are institutionalized in adat (customary law) to

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control women’s mobility by their power over decision making. The fact that women actually travel thousands of kilometres for new job opportunities in the domestic service sector (an estimated 75 per cent of domestic workers are female) does not necessarily challenge the idea that it is men who wield power in unfamiliar realms. Following a number of problems related to female workers overseas, in 2005 the conservative Indonesian Council of Religious Scholars (Majelis Ulama Indonesia) issued a fatwa (instruction) that prohibits women from working overseas without their muhrim (close male relatives with whom a Muslim woman may travel, e.g. father, uncle, husband, brother or other male relatives).9 Such mobility regimes result in particular forms of control over, and protection of, female workers’ mobility (cf. Glick Schiller and Salazar 2013). However, producing safety through controlling their mobility can also result in immobility (Kloppenburg and Peters 2012). In the wake of the feminization of long-distance mobility across the whole of Asia, however, brokerage is both increasingly gendering and gendered. As a result of this, a large number of mobility brokers are now women, even if men still appear to be predominant (Lindquist, Xiang and Yeoh 2012). At the same time, women’s mobility in Indonesia does represent a partial break with earlier cultural traditions. Indonesian women’s increased access to mobility can be seen as a struggle for new subjectivity (Forshee 2000; Williams 2007). Their translocal movements contest a local femininity, transgressing the cultural association of women with ‘home’ and are partly an embodied response to the constraints and rigidity of their subject positions and roles at home, as well as to challenges and opportunities presented by globalization. If the women send remittances to their families, or if they invest their incomes in their home villages, their overseas mobility becomes less overtly challenging to the family systems and national economies that they have left behind. However, ‘the transnationalization of Indonesian women’s migration neither fits neatly into the state’s vision of the ideal “family” nor does the spatial mobility of transnational women generally help solidify old versions of national unity’ (Silvey 2006: 34). Being transnationally mobile, while still confined in their movement, many female migrant workers end up making journeys that have been characterized as ‘confined mobilities’ (Kloppenburg and Peters 2012). Importantly, gender often structures the forms that brokerage takes, because debt, labour rights and visa processes often vary between men and women, particularly with the increasing

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formalization of migration (Lindquist, Xiang and Yeoh 2012). At the same time, mobile workers have become more resourceful in obtaining information through expanded social relationships and new ways of connecting. These networks are essential in empowering the workers when they face difficulties. Women use the possibility of travelling and working abroad to realize, and develop, ideas of how they would like to live in a modern world. In so doing, they combine strategically traditional values with Islamic, state-promoted and ‘modern’ ones. The TKW, or overseas female labour worker, is seen by the dominant sociocultural ideology as a ‘woman out of place’: ‘a figure whose transnational mobility … both threatens the national order and promises a way forward’ (Barker and Lindquist 2009: 54).

Mobile Tradition and Modernity In Indonesia, as elsewhere, contemporary mobilities are informed both by a long tradition (see above) and by more recent imaginaries of what it means to be ‘modern’. While the meaning of ‘modernity’ has been hotly debated across the scholarly spectrum as a contested concept full of ambiguities and tensions, as a social imaginary, it plays a pervasive and powerful role and seems crucial to people’s self-understanding and the understanding of their relationship with people and places. In Indonesia, the seductive allure of becoming moderen (modern) is a particular enticement to the young and the upwardly mobile. In a fascinating multi-authored essay entitled Figures of Indonesian Modernity, fourteen anthropologists focus on a series of characters that are pervasive in ‘modern’ Indonesia. The lead authors define modernity as: A temporary place holder for the constellation of forces that define the contemporary moment in at least one corner of the world … [T] his moment is characterized by the pervasive effects of capitalism and commodification, a deep ambivalence about older figures of authority, and the emergence of new claims to authority grounded in new media. (Barker and Lindquist 2009: 38)

Interestingly, some of the figures covered in this essay are directly related to border-crossing mobilities: the TKW, or overseas female labour migrant, who embodies the contradictions of class and gender mobility (by Silvey); the petugas lapangan, or field agent, who functions as an informal labour recruiter for transnational migrants (by Lindquist); and Pak Haji, or Mr Hajj, who wears the white cap

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that proclaims he has made the pilgrimage to Mecca (by Darmadi). This illustrates how modernity is linked to ‘moving forward’ in both physical and imaginative ways (cf. Cresswell 2006).10 The idea of modernity commonly includes two distinguishing (and almost normative) characteristics: (1) a break from an out-of-date past and (2) progress into an improved future. The case of Indonesia illustrates the imaginary aspect of this idea because culturally-inflected mobilities, such as merantau, remain important while the dream of more social mobility is unattainable for the majority of the population. While older people often connect modernity to orthodox Islam (as opposed to premodern spirit beliefs), the younger generations in Indonesia seem to be adhering to a more secular kind of modernity. For them, there are also links between becoming Indonesian, increased identification with the Muslim world, becoming urban, becoming ‘modern’ and becoming wealthy. People and places can, at the same time, be trapped in limbo, neither ‘traditional’ nor ‘modern’, not progressing on a straight path from the former to the latter, a state that Suzanne Brenner (1998) describes as the ‘unmodern’, haunted by the spectre of past modernities and their failure. The imaginative aspects of what it means to be ‘modern’ are reflected in the images of technological mobility that the term evokes.11 In Indonesia, the idea of becoming ‘modern’ is correlated with the use of new information and communication technologies. The mobile phone is not merely a tool for communication; it is also an emblematic cultural artefact infused with symbolic meaning and representational value that plays a role in the construction of ‘modern’ subjectivities. The rise of new media in Indonesia, including online social media networks, is embedded in a narrative of modernity that shapes how Indonesians use and understand these technologies. Changes in the media landscape, combined with political upheaval in the late 1990s, prepared the ground for the reception and appropriation of the mobile phone as constitutive of a ‘mobile modernity’ (Barendregt 2008). In this modernity, people are free to move corporeally, socio-economically and imaginatively. Their imaginaries draw upon (mostly) imagined mobilities in which they, too, are ‘flexible citizens’ (Ong 1999). In other words, ‘modernity has become equivalent to mobility’ (Barendregt 2008: 160). However, for most people, this mobility has to be qualified as ‘limited mobility’, because even the mobile technologies to which they have access are constrained by a particular time and space. This reduced technological access contextualizes and conditions their geographical and social mobilities.

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‘Modern subjects’ are above all mobile urbanites, in stark contrast with the orang kampung (rural dwellers, understood to be ‘country bumpkins’ or ‘hicks’).12 In other words, modernity in Indonesia is not only associated with technology but also with places. There is a clear hierarchy of which places are seen as more ‘modern’, ranging from towns to provincial capitals, and from Jakarta to global cities such as Singapore and Hong Kong (where many Indonesian migrants work). There is a marked contrast, however, between imagining modernity and making people experience attachment to their new (urban) settings. For most rural-urban migrants, their kampung halaman (ethnic ‘homeland’) remains the place where they feel they belong (Thompson 2002). That is why many migrants deem it important to remain in close contact with their home base, either through visits (physical movement) or through new mobile technologies (imaginary mobility). Moreover, many of the urban settlements where migrants dwell mimic tangible physical elements of the rural kampung environment (Somantri 1995). As Vickers (2004) writes: Indonesian cities … are impermanent sites of modernity. Cities contain nodes of liminality, of which kampungs are the main focus for movement. Those who can raise the fares to travel move with contact names and addresses of people they will link up to in an urban kampung made up, one hopes, of people from one’s village of origin. People do not think of themselves as “migrants” necessarily, because the village is always “home”, and in the process of travel you try to keep up those village links. (Vickers 2004: 313–14).

Conclusion Questions about mobility take on particular meanings in specific political-economic contexts that have produced those movements and discourses (Ford and Lyons 2006). Though few regions have been able to match Southeast Asia’s ethnic diversity, even fewer have been able to match its histories of movement (Tagliacozzo 2009). As Vickers argues: The study of Southeast Asia needs to take account of mobility across the region and its various cultural and material manifestations. If we assume that mobility is an inherent part of Southeast Asian states and societies, then we can first assume that people moved and brought elements of culture backwards and forwards; and, second, that wider patterns of fluidity are built into local epistemology and ontology. (2009: 70)

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Mobility is certainly central to the lives of many people in Indonesia (for a similar account in the Albanian context, see Gregorič Bon, this volume). However, as described in this chapter, Indonesian patterns of human movement have undergone dynamic changes, linked to various regional political events and circumstances. In the past, indigenous patterns of circular mobility tended to revolve around trade networks and seasonal subsistence but, with the expansion of European colonialism and global capitalism, mobility has shifted to accommodate and deal with these changes. In many cases, externally generated changes reinforced traditional forms of mobility, such as merantau, and added new ones. One gets a good impression of the massiveness of Indonesian interisland mobility at the end of the Muslim fasting month, Ramadan, when millions of Indonesians (not Muslims exclusively) criss-cross the archipelago to return ‘home’ (pulang kampung). Many spent most of their money, painstakingly earned during the year, in order to have some quality time together with their family (particularly their parents). This mass homecoming practice is called mudik Lebaran.13 This is not merely a religious or spiritual affair, but also an economic and cultural phenomenon. Typically, it involves travel from centres of employment or education – cities – to rural villages or provincial towns where people have left their families behind. The ritual typically manifests itself in traffic chaos. Mudik Lebaran shows the lasting importance of family networks and ‘home’, as I have discussed in the context of merantau. The rich tradition of merantau, or travelling to gain experience (at different levels), serves to illustrate that translocal border crossings are not generally made with the intention of uprooting people, but are experienced by both ‘movers’ and ‘stayers’ as incomplete and openended. Because merantau is culturally institutionalized, it assumes an element of circularity, in that leaving and returning are equally encouraged.14 Home and the feeling of belonging are imaginatively constructed through movement (cf. the introduction to this volume). Most Indonesians are part of this mobility, whether personally or through the back and forth movements of relatives or significant others. Culturally rooted understandings of geographical mobility, such as merantau, are as relevant as real physical movements in attempting to explain the meaning of (im)mobility (Salazar and Smart 2011). Merantau is a process that is strongly connected to cultural and kinship values. The example of merantau shows tradition and institutionalization can also encourage stability and lack of mobility. The mobility

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of women was hindered for a long time, because cultural norms constrained their individual freedom. However, a sort of female rantau emerged in the late twentieth century and continues today. The traditional merantau experience speaks of travels that draw people closer to, rather than pushing them away from, ‘home’. However, the locally-rooted meanings of merantau mobility have changed in response to the rapidly changing wider economic context. The process of merantau is increasingly changing into migration, i.e., to permanent settlement elsewhere. While many find the reality of life in the rantau vastly different to how they imagined it, they end up staying for a variety of reasons (Rodgers 1995). The changing practice of merantau is accompanied by shifts in the meaning of ‘home’, from a lived to a culturally constructed space (cf. Gregorič Bon, this volume). For many Indonesians, home is no longer referring to a fixed locale (cf. Gregorič Bon; Lulle; Repič, this volume), even though people often define it like that when making claims of rootedness and belonging. It seems that the contemporary meaning of home merges mobility and immobility at the same time, exemplifying Green’s (2013) ‘relative location’. As suggested in the introduction to this volume, besides people, places such as home also shift their location. While merantau has evolved from circular mobility to more permanent migration, modern travelling and communication technologies have decreased the geographical distance with the kampung halaman (homeland). This allows Indonesian migrants to keep in touch with their native ‘home’ base while, at the same time, trying to construct, culturally, a kampunglike life in urban settings. So, while many Indonesian migrants have left their kampung halaman (some forever), they have not abandoned (the imaginary of) the(ir) kampung. Noel B. Salazar is a Research Professor in anthropology at the University of Leuven, Belgium. He is editor of the Worlds in Motion (Berghahn) and Anthropology of Tourism (Lexington) book series, co-editor of various edited volumes and special issues, and author of numerous peer-reviewed articles and book chapters on mobility and travel. He is vice-president of the International Union of Anthropological and Ethnological Sciences, past president of the European Association of Social Anthropologists and founder of AnthroMob, the EASA Anthropology and Mobility Network. In 2013, Salazar was elected as member of the Young Academy of Belgium.

38  ◆  Noel B. Salazar

Notes   1. I carried out ethnographic fieldwork and archival research in Indonesia in 2011 (supplemented with data from previous research in the country since 2000).  2. I use the notion ‘(im)mobility’ to critique the dichotomy between mobility and immobility that characterizes some of the scholarship. Mobility and immobility are two sides of the same coin. They should only be separated for analytical purposes (cf. Salazar and Smart 2011).   3. The rich vocabulary people have developed to talk about movement is evidence of this. Jill Forshee, for instance, describes the different terms that exist in eastern Sumbanese: palaku connotes journeying, danggangu applies to wide-ranging travel for the purposes of trade, whereas mbawa implies travelling about for pleasure, usually over short distances (2000: 210).   4. The word rantau refers to the (often adventurous) geographical, social and moral realm of journeying outside the ethnic ‘homeland’ (kampung halaman). It was originally limited in meaning to the coast to which people travelled from the hinterland, but the notion acquired additional meanings of travelling upriver, studying abroad, wandering and bordercrossing mobility in general.   5. In this context, the idea of being ‘left behind’ has two related meanings: (1) remaining in the village and (2) not ‘progressing’ or becoming ‘modern’.  6. At the same time, the ratio from Sulawesi remains at a higher level, suggesting that the cultural orientation to merantau continues to influence mobility from this area.  7. Oknum is a euphemism for rogue elements in the Indonesian police and the militaristic preying on migrant workers. Calur or calo are the words used to denote employment brokers, the line between informal and legal variants being difficult to draw. Pengawal (literally ‘body guard’) and tai kong are terms for migrant smugglers, similar to ‘snakeheads’ (smuggling Chinese people across the globe) and ‘coyotes’ (smuggling people across the U.S.-Mexico border).  8. Anna Tsing, for example, has noted that in the Meratus region of Kalimantan a travelling woman is considered to be a ‘disorderly’ woman (1993: 219). Jill Forshee describes how the cultural ideals of masculine and feminine mobility across Indonesia are even visible in traditional wear: ‘[f]ollowing customary poise, women throughout Indonesia should be slow and graceful (halus), and clothing accentuates their movements. Most traditional wear inhibits long strides affecting a woman’s poise. Some have interpreted this as constraining women’s mobility in a larger sense’ (2006: 142).   9. According to Islamic law, muhrim (or mahram) indicates a degree of consanguinity that renders marriage impossible, but gives a man and

The (Im)Mobility of Merantau as a Sociocultural Practice in Indonesia  ◆  39

a woman the right of association. Theoretically, a Muslim woman’s muhrim forms the group of escorts with whom she is permitted to travel. 10. For the multiple links scholars have made between modernity and mobility, see the work of, among others, Arjun Appadurai (1996), Marc Augé (1995), Zygmunt Bauman (2000), Walter Benjamin (1999), Tim Cresswell (2006), and Dean MacCannell (1999). 11. Technologies, as emblems of modernity and mediators of novel kinds of social relations and imaginaries that gave rise to national communities, played a key role in the entanglement of nation and modernity (Anderson 1991). Modernity and Indonesian nationalism, for instance, were almost indistinguishable for most of the first half of the twentieth century. However, modernity has always been ‘at large’ (Appadurai 1996), exceeding the boundaries of the nation, even as the desire to participate in global modernity was itself a force animating the formation of the Indonesian national community. 12. This becomes evident when labour migrants return to their village of origin with some savings, a new look and, above all, ‘a body politics (speech and deportment) that speaks of experience of modernity and a shrugging-off of the label “orang kampung”’ (Elmhirst 2007: 232). 13. Lebaran is an Indonesian word for the Arabic Eid al-Fitr (the Sugar Feast, marking the end of Ramadan). Mudik is derived from udik, a noun denoting someone from a remote area, as well as a humble or innocent person. By adding the consonant ‘m’ (mudik), it lexically comes to mean travelling from the city to the village, from a ‘modern’ place to a remote and less developed place. 14. Circular mobility is generally community-based and occurs within the most ‘customary’ societies: the depth of traditional culture explains the strong linkages with the territories of origin and the cohesiveness of group structures.

References Ali, M.M. 1996. ‘Ethnic Hinterland. Contested Spaces between Nations and Ethnicities in the Lives of Baweanese Labor Migrants’, Ph.D. Dissertation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University. Anderson, B.R. 1991. Imagined Communities. Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. 2nd ed. New York: Verso. Appadurai, A. 1996. Modernity at Large. Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Augé, M. 1995. Non-Places. Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity, trans. John Howe. London: Verso.

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Barendregt, B. 2002. ‘The Sound of “Longing for Home”. Redefining a Sense of Community through Minang Popular Music’, Bijdragen tot de Taal- Land- en Volkenkunde 158(3): 411–50. ———. 2008. ‘Sex, Cannibals, and the Language of Cool. Indonesian Tales of the Phone and Modernity’, Information Society 24(3): 160–70. Barker, J. and J. Lindquist. 2009. ‘Figures of Indonesian Modernity’, Indonesia 87: 35–72. Bauman, Z. 2000. Liquid Modernity. Cambridge: Polity Press. Bedford, R. 1973. New Hebridean Mobility. A Study of Circular Migration. Canberra: Australian National University. Benjamin, W. 1999. The Arcades Project. Cambridge: Belknap Press. Bonnemaison, J. 1984. ‘The Tree and the Canoe. Roots and Mobility in Vanuatu Societies’, Pacific Viewpoint 25(2): 117–51. Brenner, S.A. 1998. The Domestication of Desire. Women, Wealth, and Modernity in Java. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Chapman, M. and R.M. Prothero (eds). 1985. Circulation in Population Movement. Substance and Concepts from the Melanesian Case. London: Routledge. Chou, C. 2003. Indonesian Sea Nomads. Money, Magic, and Fear of the Orang Suku Laut. London: Routledge Curzon. Cresswell, T. 2006. On the Move. Mobility in the Modern Western World. New York: Routledge. Elmhirst, R. 2007. ‘Tigers and Gangsters. Masculinities and Feminised Migration in Indonesia’, Population, Space and Place 13(3): 225–38. Evans, G. 2009. Merantau. Jakarta: Pt. Merantau Films. Ford, M. and L. Lyons. 2006. ‘The Borders Within. Mobility and Enclosure in the Riau Islands’, Asia Pacific Viewpoint 47(2): 257–71. Forshee, J. 2000. Between the Folds. Stories of Cloth, Lives, and Travels from Sumba. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. ———. 2006. Culture and Customs of Indonesia. Westport: Greenwood Press. Glick Schiller, N. and N.B. Salazar. 2013. ‘Regimes of Mobility across the Globe’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 39(2): 183–200. Goss, J. and B. Lindquist. 2000. ‘Placing Movers. An Overview of the AsianPacific Migration System’, The Contemporary Pacific 12(2): 385–414. Green, S. 2013. ‘Replacing Europe’, in R. Fardon, T.H. Marchand, C. Shore, V. Strang, R. Wilson and M. Nuttall (eds), The Sage Handbook of Social Anthropology. Thousand Oaks: Sage, pp 286–307. Hugo, G.J. 1982. ‘Circular Migration in Indonesia’, Population and Development Review 8(1): 59–83. ———. 2005. ‘The New International Migration in Asia. Challenges for Population Research’, Asian Population Studies 1(1): 93–120. Ingold, T. 2011. Being Alive. Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. London: Routledge. Kato, T. 1982. Matriliny and Migration. Evolving Minangkabau Traditions in Indonesia. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

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Kedit, P.M. 1993. Iban Bejalai. Kuala Lumpur: Ampang Press. Killias, O. 2010. ‘“Illegal” Migration as Resistance. Legality, Morality and Coercion in Indonesian Domestic Worker Migration to Malaysia’, Asian Journal of Social Science 38(6): 897–914. Kloppenburg, S. and P. Peters. 2012. ‘Confined Mobilities. Following Indonesian Migrant Workers on Their Way Home’, Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie 103(5): 530–41. Lindquist, J.A. 2009. The Anxieties of Mobility. Migration and Tourism in the Indonesian Borderlands. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press. Lindquist, J., B. Xiang and B.S.A. Yeoh. 2012. ‘Opening the Black Box of Migration. Brokers, the Organization of Transnational Mobility and the Changing Political Economy in Asia’, Pacific Affairs 85(1): 7–19. Lowe, C. 2003. ‘The Magic of Place. Sama at Sea and on Land in Sulawesi, Indonesia’, Bijdragen tot de Taal- Land- en Volkenkunde 159(1): 109–33. MacCannell, D. 1999. The Tourist. A New Theory of the Leisure Class. Revised ed. Berkeley: University of California Press. Mrázek, R. 1994. Sjahrir. Politics and Exile in Indonesia. Ithaca: Southeast Asia Program Publications. Naim, M. 1974. ‘Merantau. Minangkabau Voluntary Migration’, Ph.D. Dissertation. Singapore: National University of Singapore. ———. 1976. ‘Voluntary Migration in Indonesia’, in D. Kubát and A.H. Richmond (eds), Internal Migration. The New World and the Third World. Beverly Hills: Sage, pp. 148–83. Nyíri, P. 2010. Mobility and Cultural Authority in Contemporary China. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Ong, A. 1999. Flexible Citizenship. The Cultural Logics of Transnationality. Durham: Duke University Press. Rodgers, S. (ed.). 1995. Telling Lives, Telling History. Autobiography and Historical Imagination in Modern Indonesia. Berkeley: University of California Press. Rudnyckyj, D. 2004. ‘Technologies of Servitude. Governmentality and Indonesia Transnational Labor Migration’, Anthropological Quarterly 77(3): 407–34. Salazar, N.B. 2010a. Envisioning Eden. Mobilizing Imaginaries in Tourism and Beyond. Oxford: Berghahn. ———. 2010b. ‘Towards an Anthropology of Cultural Mobilities’, Crossings. Journal of Migration and Culture 1(1): 53–68. ———. 2011a. ‘The Power of Imagination in Transnational Mobilities’, Identities. Global Studies in Culture and Power 18(6): 576–98. ———. 2011b. ‘Tanzanian Migration Imaginaries’, in R. Cohen and G. Jónsson (eds), Migration and Culture. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, pp. 673–87. ———. 2013. ‘Imagining Mobility at the “End of the World”’, History and Anthropology 24(2): 233–52.

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Salazar, N.B., and A. Smart. 2011. ‘Anthropological Takes on (Im)Mobility. Introduction’, Identities. Global Studies in Culture and Power 18(6): i–ix. Siegel, J.T. 2000. The Rope of God. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Silvey, R.M. 2000a. ‘Diasporic Subjects. Gender and Mobility in South Sulawesi’, Women’s Studies International Forum 23(4): 501–15. ———. 2000b. ‘Stigmatized Spaces. Gender and Mobility under Crisis in South Sulawesi, Indonesia’, Gender, Place & Culture 7(2): 143–61. ———. 2006. ‘Consuming the Transnational Family. Indonesian Migrant Domestic Workers to Saudi Arabia’, Global Networks 6(1): 23–40. Somantri, G.R. 1995. Looking at the Gigantic Kampung. Urban Hierarchy and General Trends of Intra-City Migration in Jakarta. Bielefeld: Universität Bielefeld. Spaan, E. 1994. ‘Taikongs and Calos. The Role of Middlemen and Brokers in Javanese International Migration’, International Migration Review 28(1): 93–113. Tagliacozzo, E. 2009. ‘Navigating Communities. Race, Place, and Travel in the History of Maritime Southeast Asia’, Asian Ethnicity 10(2): 97–120. Thompson, E.C. 2002. ‘Migrant Subjectivities and Narratives of the “Kampung” in Malaysia’, Sojourn. Journal of Social Issues in Southeast Asia 17(1): 52–75. Tirtosudarmo, R. 2009. ‘Mobility and Human Development in Indonesia’, Human Development Reports Research Paper. New York: United Nations Development Programme. Tsing, A.L. 1993. In the Realm of the Diamond Queen. Marginality in an out-of-the-Way Place. Princeton: Princeton University Press. UNDP. 2009. Human Development Report 2009. Overcoming Barriers. Human Mobility and Development. New York: United Nations Development Program. Vickers, A. 2004. ‘The Country and the Cities’, Journal of Contemporary Asia 34(3): 304–17. ———. 2009. ‘Southeast Asian Studies after Said’, Arts. The Journal of the Sydney University Arts Association 31: 58–72. Vredenbregt, J. 1964. ‘Bawean Migrations’, Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde 120(1): 109–39. Williams, C.P. 2007. Maiden Voyages. Eastern Indonesian Women on the Move. Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Wolters, O.W. 1999. History, Culture, and Region in Southeast Asian Perspectives. Ithaca: Southeast Asia Program Publications, Cornell University.

2 Away, Within and Forward Wayfaring towards Better Lives Aija Lulle

Introduction My very first encounter with the story of Guernsey dates back to a sunny day in July 2003, when I boarded a plane from London Heathrow to Riga. I was sitting next to Daina, a young Latvian woman who was returning from this island, one of the Channel Islands. Our time together – an outcome, as it were, of the multiple factors and intersecting schedules that had brought us together on that particular flight – comprised two and a half hours on a British Airways plane to Latvia. The woman became a storyteller while I was conjuring up images of a world as yet unknown to me: a small island where many Latvians were pursuing a better future through their hard work in greenhouses, restaurants and hotels. She told me briefly about the regime that ensures migrants’ rotation, which was the reason why she was on her way home. She was to return to the island in a couple of months but, unlike in previous years, this time she was planning to return with her school-aged children from her former marriage to a Latvian, because she was now going to marry a local man in Guernsey. We never met again but I have been carrying her story with me for years, one of the many stories that have taken me deep into the lived experiences of Latvians on the island. I first arrived in Guernsey in January 2010 to carry out fieldwork, and in five subsequent fieldwork

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visits up until April 2012, I carried out ninety in-depth interviews with Latvian migrants and sixteen with employers and government representatives. For the woman on that plane who told me her story, a European space, comprising Guernsey, Latvia and beyond, was an increasingly open space with possibilities for a better life achieved through mobility. Before her marriage, she, like most other Latvian migrants, was engaged in what could be seen as a circular migration pattern (cf. Ruhs 2005; Triandafyllidou 2010, 2013; Skeldon 2012). However, despite the fact that circular migration under conditions of free movement of people has attracted considerable political attention (EC 2005a, 2005b; World Bank 2006; Newland 2009), we know little about how it is constrained. I see constraints as integral to the phenomenon of an open space for mobilities; in fact, constraints are the other side of the same phenomenon, because they are both normatively enabled and imposed, and they structure places that are connected through mobilities. Therefore, the most intriguing question is how migrants enact their agency to change the duration of circularity, and how this is related to aspirations to change significant places in their lives. In this chapter, I approach moving places in a dual sense: people themselves move to, from and between places and, whilst doing so, their (im)mobilities change these places. Contextualized from within the postsocialist transformations that have taken place in Latvia, whence the migrants come, and the regime of temporary migration in Guernsey, moving places are implicated by the idea of movement towards a better life. To ‘move a place’ thus means to work for Guernsey’s economic growth, as well as to make home a better place for the migrants, and to enable better lives for significant others. The idea of temporary migration that underpins both housing and migration regimes sets a specific normative context for migrants to actually make places through movement. Doreen Massey urges us to rethink space as something that is always under construction, always a ‘story-so-far’ (Massey 2005: 7). For temporary forms of migration, including various circulations, understanding space as the ‘story-so-far’ is particularly crucial. Living in present and uncertainty comes with moving back and forth between various places for prolonged periods of time. European space is open to various mobilities, but a gap exists in the understanding of what happens to time between the initial displacement and possible future permanent settlement in another country. As migrants’ practices suggest, back-and-forth mobilities cannot be seen only as a sequential practice between first migration and subsequent

Away, Within and Forward: Wayfaring towards Better Lives  ◆  45

settlement. These temporalities and mobilities are worth scrutinizing in order to contribute to migration theory, as well as to our better understanding of phenomenological structuring of space and time. Therefore we have to consider how perceptions regarding openness of space shape migration experience, and how mobilities, both those actually undertaken and those aspired to, further inform people’s own narratives. I suggest that instead of treating circular migration in Europe as strategically-planned mobilities solely for economic reasons, it is better to approach them as, in Tim Ingold’s words, wayfaring through life and places (Ingold 2007, 2011). During the two years of my fieldwork, most of my informants changed their jobs, employment positions or employers several times with concomitant changes in their accommodation. Their location was fundamentally relative (cf. Green 2005). Being here and there (Latvia, Guernsey and beyond) were constantly changing in different contexts. Besides, moving places involves materiality and also, importantly, emotionality. As Basu and Coleman have highlighted, ‘migrant worlds’ are made up of material and non-material resources that can be made mobile once personal things, thoughts and imaginations get to move, with the migrant evoking a wide range of emotions (Basu and Coleman 2008: 313–17). Following the migrant worlds that move, in the material sense as well as emotionally, I therefore examine what are seemingly emotionless legal constructions, since employment and housingrelated laws in a confined or tightly-bounded natural space demand constant rotation on the part of the migrants, but place-specific attachments encourage people to move back and forth continuously. During visits to Latvia, home unfolds in sharp relief and may cause alienation from homeland (cf. Gregorič Bon and Repič, this volume). By probing deeper into these normative and experiential dimensions, we can better understand the perception and experience of openness of space with regard to everyday mobilities on the island, and aspirations to develop places in Latvia or elsewhere while working in Guernsey. I will start by discussing the specificity of the migration regime in Guernsey and its consequences in terms of shaping the migration patterns of Latvian migrants. Guernsey, situated on the margins of European and EU space, with its freedom of movement for people, provides an excellent case study. Namely, place and culture-specific constraints for mobilities are present virtually everywhere, but on this island they are more pronounced and can, therefore, be more easily noticed and assessed.

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Moving to an Island and Moving Latvia to Europe In his monograph on small islands, Stephen Royle, one of the most prominent geographers in island studies, stresses two factors that make small islands special: isolation and boundedness (Royle 2001: 11). These factors are often taken for granted in popular perceptions of islands and translated into the idea of fixed locality, settled populations and preservation of a specific culture. However, many islands have historically been major transport and trade hubs, and subsequently have involved various mobilities of goods and people. Nowadays, they can be better understood as nodes in a wider interconnected spatial setting, where migration often constitutes a significant part of a larger story of an island (King 2009). The Channel Islands, with their unique status as direct territorial dependencies of the British Crown, maintaining their own legislative, monetary and taxation systems, together with their own parliaments and a governor appointed by the British Crown, are neither part of the EU nor of the European Economic Area. Guernsey, an island of 63.3 square kilometres and less than 63,000 inhabitants (Policy Council 2014), is a naturally bounded place, but it is also a shifting and rapidly changing social space. Latvia established its independence from the Soviet Union in 1991 and embarked upon its journey towards accession to the EU. Guernsey, along with Great Britain and Ireland, was among the first and most popular destinations for Latvians seeking work abroad since the mid-1990s. After the Soviet Union collapsed, the geopolitical repositioning of Latvia as a former Soviet republic entailed the aspiration to ‘return to Europe’; this aspiration is in itself an example of spatial projection. In most of my fieldwork interviews, when I asked the informants about their lives and how they had decided to come to Guernsey, they stressed that they had not heard about Guernsey before and, in truth, could not even locate it on the map. Their ideological Europe was abroad. ‘I wanted to go abroad to earn money’, was the most typical answer. Guernsey was an ‘x space’, somewhere in Europe, and ‘going abroad’ was a recognition of possibilities in an increasingly open space for mobilities: an opportunity for each person to compress his or her individual journey ‘back to Europe’. Lefebvre calls this a revelation of the totality of possibilities contained in daily existence and a radical recognition of new opportunities (Lefebvre 1991: 11). This moment has temporal as well as spatial existence, where temporality is conceptualized as

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boundaries in time, and space provides the anchor to be pulled up, or dropped, for temporary fixity in a given geographical location. The decision to go abroad was very often narrated as a moment in one’s life, precisely a spatial-temporal moment of transition in that person’s life stage and life trajectory and, in the given context, also simultaneously closely embedded in the spatial-temporal evolution of the nation’s life. The imagined projection of wide opportunities on an island, however, quickly met with a limited geographical space that demanded the constant rotation of migrants in Guernsey. The authorities of Guernsey portray the island primarily as a geographically-bounded entity, which is not made from an ‘elastic band’ and cannot shelter more people than it can ‘naturally’ accept. This exclusionary notion of ‘the island’ itself is in constant tension with other notions of the island: an island as a greatly elastic socially produced space due to migration flows, as well as its economic position as an offshore zone.1 Regulatory spaces mediate management of these tensions between a natural and social space, and migration to Guernsey is controlled through a sophisticated system of housing permits: migrant labour is sought in order to maintain economic activity on the island, but migrants are accepted only temporarily and only as contributors to economic growth. Such a strategy is pursued with the aim of not overpopulating the naturally restricted territory with ‘outsiders’ who are no longer of an economically productive age or who are in unfavourable circumstances, for example unemployed. Generally speaking, housing permits are linked to specific economic sectors and a person’s qualifications, and they create specific constraints on the geographic and social mobility on the island. For example, a person willing to work in the horticultural sector can qualify for a permit allowing him/her to stay on the island for up to nine months per year, while three months must be spent outside the island’s territory. Between 1997–2001, only women were recruited to work in horticulture, for a restricted period of up to nine months per year. The employer and the agency paid for their flight tickets, arranged their accommodation in a dormitory house, provided transport to and from the workplace and a weekly transport to go shopping. For most of the interviewees, moving to Guernsey for a while was crucially seen as a chance to improve their life back in Latvia. ‘The Guernsey job package’ included an opportunity to work and earn money under a specific set of rules, such as a restricted period of stay on the island. In addition, a further limiting restriction was the practice of issuing

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housing and work permits to a single working person, while almost non-existent social allowances meant that there was little incentive to prolong the stay. The temporary stay was constructed by the shared expectations of both employers and employees, premised on the assumption that migrant workers will leave after their work is completed. These and other regulations, however, fitted in well with people’s aspirations: to go to work on the island for a short term, reach the target amount of money and then come back to Latvia to carry on with their lives at home, with at least some improvement in the material sense. Thus, moving away for a while was crucially related to moving their life forward upon returning home. The greenhouse provided, metaphorically, a translocal greenhouse condition: it was possible to work in this sector even without elementary English skills, since life and work revolved around relating to other Latvians. Local workers or those from other countries were few, except the management and supervisors at work or in dormitory houses. In the 1990s, middle management was more commonly filled with Portuguese workers from Madeira who were working in agriculture before the Latvians came. An examination of the time-space aspects of the portrayal of greenhouse work can be underpinned by some direct quotes from the interviewees. Working between hot greenhouses and cold refrigerators led to swollen fingers, rough hands and physical exhaustion, and the use of chemicals often led to allergies. The workers’ own desire to work hard only compounded these effects. The greenhouse experience was often referred to with reference to physical changes in the body: some lost weight dramatically due to the heavy work and the desire to save and take back to Latvia as much money as possible: I had a room on my own but others were living like in cattle trucks. But the salary was 100–120 lats (140–170 EUR) a month at that time in Latvia, and they earned it in a week, if working forty hours, while others were working eighty hours. There was one woman who was living on five pounds a week, she was buying only reduced products, it was visually possible to tell how she was living, she lost weight dramatically. (Armins, in her thirties, worked in greenhouses in the early 2000s)

In many cases the housing situation was seen as being worse than in Latvia, especially if a room had to be shared with other people who were not relatives or close friends. This is expressed by Maija, in her twenties, who during her first year in Guernsey worked in horticulture.

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When we were still on the flight over here, the women [who were working there before] were trying to scare us [about] how terrible it was going to be, that we would be living packed in a horrible room, and [the] toilet will be almost in the same room behind the curtains. But the most terrible thing was not the living conditions, but that Latvian women can treat each other like this … Nine people replaced each other in my room during ten months … It was difficult in terms of trust, you have a passport, everything in that room, you do not have a safe box, anybody can open your drawer while you are away, read your letters or your diary … At one point I thought I will collapse. Taking a shower, somebody is banging on the doors, real kolkhoz. Two people would take a shower together and you have to undress in front of a woman who is not your mother or your sister. It was very hard, really hard, it was hard already for me although I like socializing, but for more introvert and shy people, how much harder it was for them. (Maija, in her twenties)

So, as she said, it was a terrible experience for a number of reasons. The work schedule did not allow women to see the island in its diversity. Most notably, negative experiences came from ‘greenhouse’ conditions where compatriots, usually complete strangers to each other, would be packed off to work together temporarily but inevitably ended up competing against each other. ‘I have to endure’, was the most common expression used by people remembering their first year in Guernsey. ‘Enduring’ was possible and necessary, knowing that they were in Guernsey temporarily, that current hardships were investments for moving back to Latvia, buying private houses and flats, newly built or renovated (thanks to money earned abroad). Enduring these hardships would help their close relatives, most notably, their children move forward: Without a single day off, I tell you, horrible, horrible, I would not be able to bear it any more. But that’s how we started. All of us, first girls who came … For those who come nowadays, it is a very different experience. After I returned [to Latvia] I thought, I will never ever come out to this place again. But next year [proposals to work in] hotels started. (Ilga, in her fifties, started working in greenhouses in the late 1990s and continued in other sectors)

‘Greenhouse’, metaphorically, is implicitly deployed as a transitory in-between space from Soviet past to capitalist Europe. It is a space in which a migrant should work hard, endure and move forward to achieve a better life (in a different context, see also Sutton 2008 for his in-depth interpretation of how ‘tradition’ and ‘modernity’ are

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deployed to express changes in people’s everyday lives on the island of Kalymnos, Greece). However, as early as after the first year, Ilga’s intention to stay on a temporary basis in Guernsey changed, due to the desire and need to continue earning higher wages and due to increasing opportunities in other employment sectors for migrants. Gradually, as of 2001, opportunities for work in the tourism sector were also opened to Latvian migrants. Recruitment for this was mainly organized by the same agency as the greenhouse work, and housing and working licences were issued for nine months per year. After Latvia’s ‘move’ into the EU in 2004, Latvian migrants could freely search for work in Guernsey but housing restrictions were still in place. As soon as Latvia joined the EU, horticulture- and agriculture-related sectors lost their attractiveness in the eyes of some migrant workers, and those who were already on the island tried to get jobs in tourism or retail due to the better wages and living conditions. A person working in restaurants and hotels can receive a residence permit for up to three years and accommodation in staff hotels is often provided with jobs in these sectors, so guest workers live like working guests. Most employment in shops or as a carer for the elderly qualifies the employee for a residence permit of up to five years. However, this also demands a higher contribution to the economy through rental payments, because migrants with these sector-specific work permits must live in the so-called open market, which is at least fifty per cent more expensive than the local market and constitutes around eight per cent of the entire real estate market. However, changing employment sectors, family status and moving to the open market opens up opportunities to prolong an individual’s stay in Guernsey. To sum up, it is only possible to understand how these physically exhausting conditions were tolerated when the workers’ ambitions to improve their conditions in Latvia are taken into account. Primarily, hard work in Guernsey was seen as a chance to speed up changes in personal and family welfare in Latvia due to wage disparities. Moreover, initial aspirations to a one-off stay in Guernsey to improve life in Latvia were quickly seen as unreal and circular migration continued. Since the mid-1990s when the trajectory to Guernsey started, emigration has become one of the defining features of contemporary Latvia. Based on the latest census data in Latvia gathered in 2011, the Latvian Ministry of Economics assessed that during the decade between 2000 and 2010, about 213,000 of Latvia’s inhabitants left the country and the country’s population

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effectively shrunk from almost 2.3 million to barely two million (MoE 2013). Of all the Eastern European migrants in Guernsey, Latvians possibly form the largest ethnic group, but due to the lack of data, it is impossible to provide reliable quantitative evidence.2 Some Latvian migrants themselves believe that the total number of Latvians working in Guernsey between 1997 and 2007 was as high as 5,000–8,000 (replacing each other). The numbers have been declining since, but with the impact of the severe recession in Latvia since 2010, the numbers have again started rising by an estimate of 1,500–2,000 people. These numbers appear in many narratives and press publications in Latvia, and yet I have not been able to establish firm sources for them and I do not believe that exact numbers are a fundamental cornerstone of the Guernsey story. Rather, the lack of exact figures for the number of Latvians in Guernsey signifies, for me, precisely the temporary and volatile nature of migration flows as a dialogical construction of both the Latvian migrant community in Guernsey and the local politics managing the limited space. Wayfaring and, subsequently, changes in mobility direction and frequency have been increasingly affected by personal relations. Year after year, more and more Latvians have married people with permanent residency permits in Guernsey. Again, due to the specific regulatory context, marrying on the island not only means settling down more permanently in one place but it also implies opportunities to move back and forth more freely while other migrants remain more constrained by housing regulations. Partnership or marriage also allows migrants to live under the Guernsey partner’s permit, with the promise of permanent residency after the specified time permitted for a migrant worker on the island has lapsed. An individual permanent residence can be obtained after approximately ten years of living continuously in Guernsey; however, it is still bound by various other conditions.

Staying Mobile on the Island Because the legal regime, restricted housing and initial subjective aspirations did not foresee permanent settlement on the island, physical mobility and travelling (the time-space between Guernsey and Latvia) constitute an integral part of a migrant’s experience on the island (Burrell 2008). A return ticket and a partly unpacked or already-packed suitcase become part of the furniture in the migrants’ worlds: a memory of or intentions of a journey (Basu and Coleman 2008: 315–17). Mobility and place form a unit of experience,

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structured through the dynamics of movement (see also Gregorič Bon; Salazar, this volume). Embodied emotions and tensions of travel to the island and projections of expected travel away from Guernsey are intrinsically interwoven in self-representation in the place and also in materiality: a suitcase is often kept ready under one’s bed due to frequent changes of residence on the island or to the regular transnational shuttle between Guernsey and Latvia. In order to make improvements to their houses in Latvia, Latvian migrants in Guernsey change their everyday (im)mobilities on the island. Moreover, these (im)mobilities are intimately intertwined with the gender and life-course of the migrants and those who receive remittances. Mobilities are seldom planned beforehand: people rather ‘wayfare’ and decide ad hoc where to move to next or whether to prolong their stay in Guernsey, and decisions regarding embarking on a journey back to Latvia or moving to another place are generally shot through with anxieties. When I first interviewed fifty-year-old Rita in the summer of 2010, she was sharing a bed with a compatriot woman who was a complete stranger to her. However, Rita soon moved out of the attic room due to conflicts among the tenants in the lodging house, and had to find somebody else with whom she could share a room and expenses. We were often in touch via social networks, where she posted her timeline for her few visits back to Latvia. But when she came back to Guernsey and moved into a new house, she soon had to move again, and then again, so that our second long interview took place in what was effectively her sixth accommodation in less than a year, a rented basement room that she was trying to make more liveable. Each move was accompanied by emotional stress. Each shift also entailed losing things or leaving them behind: ‘I just took one bag and left everything else in that place’, Rita explained about her last move to new accommodation. Inevitably it would require a visit to a skip, where people recycled their old furniture. The one thing that seemed to have remained stable in these frequent shifts of lodgings was her profile on the social website draugiem.lv, which is a Latvian equivalent of Facebook. Rita lived in various staff houses for horticulture and fulfilment industry workers for several years in the 2000s. During this period, she also helped her brother, cousins and her grown-up daughter to find work and temporary accommodation on the island, before she decided to take up a managerial position with a company in Latvia. However, after the economic crisis in Latvia in 2009, she decided to return to Guernsey and worked as a cleaner in bars and restaurants

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until she finally got, as she characterized it, a more prestigious and well-paid job in an elderly people’s home as a carer. This was, according to her judgement, possibly the highest step of her career on the island, because she had more or less exhausted all the other options available to her there. Yet, during the interview, she was pondering several further possibilities: she could try to prolong her stay in Guernsey to allow her school-age daughter to come there for the summers and earn her own money; Rita could also move back to Latvia or even try her luck in Germany, which opened its labour market for Eastern European migrants in 2011. People enact their agency and do not simply follow normative regulations, which prescribe freedoms and constraints of mobilities. Migrants ‘work’ with constraints on an everyday basis and relate these constraints to their next moves or immobilities, creating their own spatio-temporal frames of reference. Thus, temporary returns to Latvia and experiences there may actually serve as a reason to avoid frequent returns in future and to overcome the ‘guilt’ of not returning home as often as possible (Baldassar 2011, 2014). Staying longer on the island was significantly linked to a keenness to earn more money and send it regularly to Latvia. If a migrant returned to Latvia for a longer period of time, for example, three months, he or she usually spent all her savings: Living is significantly more expensive in the open market: I pay ninety pounds weekly for a single room and then it will be 150 for the samesized room [on the open market]. But then I can get better part-time jobs. So I decided in favour of the open market because I still do not have enough spare money to go to Latvia [for three months]. I know it will be hard not to be with my children longer but I will go for two weeks. And I will not go into debt during three months in Latvia, this is what I really want to avoid. (Inga, in her forties, came to Guernsey during the economic crisis in late 2008)

Furthermore, the experience gained during the initial years permits choosing less demanding working lives. A physically demanding job and lack of sleep sharply reminds migrant workers of their physical bodily constraints. These boundaries can be challenged but there are limits and consequences. Therefore enduring also has its rhythms, which are dynamically set against the migration cycle: what was achieved in the first years with longer breaks back in Latvia was not wanted, accepted or seen as physically possible in the subsequent years. Importantly, it goes hand in hand with more knowledge about the place:

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During the first year I was working until midnight on Thursdays and at 4 a.m. I already had to wake up … Opening one’s eyes is the most difficult at that hour. Only one time I was thinking still in bed that I do not need all this, I will not go to work. But then the duty feeling comes – how will it be if a chef does not show up? I endured last year because it was my first year and I did not know better. But I cannot work like this for another year any more. (Aivars, in her forties, had several jobs on the island since 2006)

Also, learning more about normative constraints on the island allows one greater opportunities to pursue a better life there, setting goals, saving wisely, learning the language: all of these increase upward social mobility on the island, back in Latvia or elsewhere. Saving and earning go hand in hand with a new awareness of pursuing a better life on the island: one must learn the housing regime regulations that are opaque to most at the beginning, as, once learned, this knowledge opens up new possibilities for a better life and most often involves physical movement from one locality to another: I am not satisfied with small things I could get easily. Those who have good English skills are in a better position. I had basic knowledge, but unsatisfactory, while my husband did not speak English at all. Two years we spent in restaurants. We had an aim to dig through housing regulations, this is the most important thing here. When we moved to the service sector, to construction, we were living in the open market, we were not satisfied with the small achievement there, we had a one-bedroom apartment, and living conditions were terrible [far from the centre]. We were thinking further, further, further, and now we have come so far that although we do not have a house on our own but we pay nine hundred pounds in monthly rent for three bedrooms, we have our own open space outside, our kitchen. During the second year we bought a car, the third year – a boat. Slowly moving forward, not wasting money carelessly. (Vineta, in her thirties, worked in the beauty industry since 2007)

Hyper-dynamic social mobility on various scales is specific to migrant activities on the island, which only allows for a limited number of temporary workers to enter at any given time: it is not uncommon for a person to change employment several times a year. For example, thirty-year-old Maija works full-time in a managerial position in a department store, but early in the morning, late at night and at weekends, she cleans houses and also works in a restaurant. And there is also space for temporary ‘undocumented’ labour over a short period of stay. However, even though many are considered working class and are at least initially employed in the lower tier

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of the labour market, it would be incorrect to explain Latvians’ employment situation in Guernsey as social downgrading simply to pursue a better salary than what could be earned in Latvia. On the contrary, my informants have often stressed that as shop assistants or employees in care homes, they enjoy their working conditions and learn professional skills that they would not be able to acquire in Latvia. The fear of losing the self-respect they have gained through professional work in Guernsey is an undertone running through many of their justifications to postpone the return to Latvia for as long as they can, as the informants start to imagine what life might be like there. Yet, for some, who are employed in several workplaces at a time, work is so intense that ‘compressed time’ in Guernsey dedicated to earning money results in a deteriorated state of health that could stipulate an earlier return home (to Latvia). The length of stay in Guernsey varies considerably; some migrants come for fixed periods (nine months or up to five years, depending on the housing licence and work permit received), while some come for only one to three months. Many travel back and forth in a continuous transnational shuttle. If they do not travel themselves, relatives and friends come to visit them in Guernsey, so that the island has become a multidirectional transnational meeting place. People manipulate various systems of time-space discipline (May and Thrift 2001). For example, students in Latvia have a break of three months during the summer, which coincides with the time period when tourists are allowed to stay on the island without additional permits. An opportunity to learn new skills in specialized sales was seen as fulfilling needs for personal growth: learning about jewellery making, cosmetics and providing consultancy on clothing style and fashions were all mentioned as factors that increase job satisfaction and reasons to postpone a return to Latvia. Three of my research participants worked in banks or investment companies, while seven had established small enterprises, owned by them or with shared ownership, or through self-employed activities. Those in entrepreneurship evaluated their own activities as the highlight in their career and a way to achieve a better life in terms of doing work that they value and in which they can learn new skills in retail, construction, wood processing, tailoring, beauty services or learn to work on their own. They saw social mobility opportunities as a crucial factor in staying on the island longer and building up experiences, which could be valuable upon returning to Latvia or moving elsewhere. The idea of returning to Latvia permanently shifted to the idea – and practice – that both locations, workplace

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in Guernsey and home in Latvia, can be combined for some time as long as it is a viable strategy towards a better life. Migrant practices reveal diverse everyday mobilities on the island, which could be easily overlooked if circular migration were merely seen as international movement between two distant places. Being geographically and socially mobile on the island increases opportunities not only for migrants themselves to progress their lives at home in Latvia and improves chances for people close to them, but by staying on the island, they also provide an opportunity for their families to become mobile and visit and undertake work on the island for a while.

Moving Home Elsewhere To understand the relational nature of the perception of an open space, we need to discuss one more increasingly common practice: moving home elsewhere beyond Latvia and Guernsey. Two main ideas emerge: aspirations of possible settlement in another country and, secondly, travelling elsewhere as a lifestyle choice. Migrants not only move between Latvia and Guernsey but increasingly travel to other places and take vacations abroad, often combining this with a trip to and from home (in Latvia) or to a workplace (in Guernsey). This has become an integral element of labour migration in Europe. Let us consider Inese’s movements on the island in light of her aspirations for a future settlement in another country: she first went to Guernsey in 2002, worked in greenhouses for nine months and shared a room with five other women. She returned again in 2003 after a brief, unsuccessful stint in another EU country, and worked in hotels that provided a single occupancy room for staff members. But Inese fell in love with a migrant worker, who was originally from Madeira. If the couple wanted to live together, they had to find open market accommodation. A monthly payment of £1,600 required extra income, therefore Inese started working in shops, where wages were higher and she also took a part-time job as a cleaner. The couple pursued a dream of having their own home, which they have already started building in Madeira, the fiancé’s homeland. But, in order to generate enough income, they wanted to continue working in Guernsey for several more years, and for that they needed a temporary but stable place to live. In other words, they sought a place from where they would not be forced out should a landlord terminate the agreement or increase rent beyond their means, or

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if either of them were to lose their job. Finally, the couple found temporary stability by moving from a house to a one-bedroom boat, accessible to very few migrant workers. Observing migrants’ everyday lives demonstrates that keeping in touch with relatives and friends, not only in Latvia but in various other countries, is a constant concern. Communication by means of internetbased communication services and phone calls keeps networks of friends criss-crossing Europe in touch with each other as well as family members from different countries, as in Inese’s case above. In the meantime, moving to and travelling to other places were expressed in terms of adventure and curiosity. Moreover, visiting relatives and friends, who are often also migrant workers elsewhere in Europe, can be combined with holidays and travel through Europe. As one of the research participants explained, she returned home to Latvia via Tenerife because a friend of hers from Latvia was working there. Staying with her friend made it possible to save money for a week while holidaying in a sunny destination. The visit was also a trial visit: if she liked the place and the working conditions, relocation from Guernsey might be considered. And finally, when booking flight tickets, the route to Riga via Tenerife turned out to be cheaper than the usual two-step travel via London, so her decision was easy. This directly echoes Williams’s explanation that travel intended for ‘visiting relatives and friends’ overlaps with leisure tourism with free accommodation (2009: 315). Another informant, sixty-six-year-old Aina, shared her feelings of bitterness due to years wasted in poverty and precarious casual work in Latvia since the 1990s. She finally obtained a pension, which was pathetic compared to the empowerment that work opportunities in Guernsey have brought her. Then she turned her story to travel practices. Aina explained how she likes to travel in Europe and shared her joy in planning and anticipating a trip: I never go directly to Latvia. This time I will travel via France as my sister is working there, in a place close to Spain. I had never even dreamed to see these places with my own eyes. I always study carefully well in advance – how can I reach the places I want to go to? … Last time I was visiting my son in Sheffield [U.K.] … He took me to a Chinese restaurant where you can take as much food as you want, all for five pounds. I ate so much that finally I almost could not stand up from the table. I literally went out from a restaurant bent like a question mark and holding my belly [demonstrates a bended back] … Next time, I have decided, I will be smarter. First, I will take pictures of all those foods and then will slowly choose. (Aina, 66, worked in cleaning since the 2000s)

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Note how Aina is talking about a meal with her son far away from their original home. This ‘meal event’ is multi-layered: it is an event to strengthen emotional bonds (Sutton 2010), which should not necessarily be ‘home food’. For Aina, this event is an adventure and a treat provided by her son and simultaneously we can also see how she enjoys discovering new tastes and experiences previously unavailable to her. Furthermore, with respect to diverse mobilities, Williams (2009: 316) has explained that those engaged in this type of post-employment mobility have often gained self-confidence and knowledge through previous mobilities. This example illustrates how international migration opens up new opportunities for multidirectional mobilities. An individual, who is categorized as a non-working pensioner in Latvia and who could not find work due to her age, was empowered by her experience as a labour migrant, which, in turn, boosted her self-confidence and resources and triggered her curiosity to travel – a social and cultural practice that is out of reach for most pensioners in present-day Latvia. To sum up, moving abroad and travelling are implicit aspects of current labour migration in Europe, especially given the fact that emigration is a recent phenomenon and has gained wide scope over a relatively short period of time. Migrants from Eastern European countries like Latvia are especially likely to travel since they now face no political barriers to travelling freely throughout Europe.

Concluding Remarks In this chapter about Latvian migrants in Guernsey, I unpacked how ideas of temporariness and circular migration became entwined with a metaphoric island, a place somewhere abroad where one can go for a while and earn money to develop home-places in peripheral Latvia. Islands have long been portrayed with the metaphor of paradise, an exotic otherness, a utopia and a sense of adventure (Royle 2001). However, metaphors of islands can be deployed ignoring and silencing the diversity of lived experiences in the place (Ronström 2012: 7). Through emphasis on normative regimes and migrant experiences this chapter aimed to contribute to the migration scholarship and our understanding of moving places in the following domains: Guernsey’s housing and work permit laws stipulated the constant rotation of migrants, but place-specific attachments and multiple projections encourage some people to move back and forth

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continuously. There is now almost completely free movement of labour for the new EU member states’ nationals, including Latvians, to Guernsey, which subscribes to the EU free movement of labour. Labour migrants themselves in most cases do not want to stay on the island permanently, despite the fact that many cannot point to the exact time when they would return to Latvia or move to other places. The openness of the European space for free movement of people is constrained locally and the Guernsey example illustrates this very pronouncedly. Further, temporary forms of migration also involve a range of local mobility practices as I demonstrated with examples of moving around within the island, and these movements are often shaped by aspirations to improve home-places in Latvia or elsewhere. In labour migrants’ aspirations for a better life in Europe moving to and from places reveals multidirectional, material and emotional experiences. Finally, these migrants’ stories and experiences constitute an open space which itself is a ‘story-so-far’ (Massey 2005) where location of temporary migrants is relative and simultaneously constrained in concrete places. ‘Migrant worlds’ (Basu and Coleman 2008) are journeys: the one taken as well as those intended and imagined in an unspecified future. I will finish with the words of Maija: All I know is that I will land in Riga one day and all will be fine. I will be at peace with myself.

and Inese: I often imagine my future: I will embark on a ferry, which will sail away from Guernsey, but I cannot tell you exactly when this will be.

Aija Lulle was a founding Director of the Centre for Diaspora and Migration Research, University of Latvia and is a Research Fellow in the School of Global Studies at the University of Sussex, U.K. She is author of several international peer-reviewed publications and collaborates with partners from Finland, the U.K, Sweden and other countries on research related to migration, diasporas, transnationalism and social inequalities. Her current interests are related to the lives of transnational families and ageing migrants especially through broader notions of citizenship as it relates to ageing, and through the histories of Latvia and its relationship with the EU.

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Acknowledgements All names are pseudonyms. I sincerely thank my informants. Earlier ideas for the chapter were discussed at the EastBordNet COST IS0803 seminar in 2010.

Notes   1. The conflict between the human right to choose one’s place of residency and the States of Guernsey’s aim to maintain the constant temporary status of migrants is not further developed in this paper as it deserves a separate in-depth discussion. The issue is also very sensitive in political debates on the island. For more details, see Population Policy Group (2011), ‘Managing Guernsey’s Population: A Consultation Document’, the States of Guernsey.   2. The constant shifting of people in time and space does not allow us to obtain precise statistical figures and they are not publicly available by country of origin. Latvians in Guernsey themselves believe their numbers to be large, and this is perhaps related both to the constant shifting of people creating a multiform ‘imagined community’ (Anderson 2006 [1983]), and trajectories in a gated space, in which Latvians cross paths more often with other Latvians, whereas they have comparatively fewer ties and connections with the local population. From a different perspective, statistics (or lack thereof) should be interpreted as an outcome of social process (Barbesino, 1998), and the official lack of acknowledgement of the scale of migration perpetuates the idea of the island as a naturally bounded place with a more or less static population, while maintaining the strategic invisibility of the temporary, mobile others.

References Anderson, B. 2006 [1983]. Imagined Communities. London and New York: Verso. Baldassar, L. 2011. ‘Italian Migrants in Australia and their Relationship to Italy. Return Visits, Transnational Caregiving and the Second Generation’, Journal of Mediterranean Studies 20(2): 1–28. ———. 2014. ‘Guilty Feelings and the Guilt Trip. Emotions and Motivation in Migration and Transnational Caregiving’, Emotion Space and Society DOI:10.1016/j.emospa.2014.09.003.

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Barbesino, P. 1998. ‘Observing Migration. The Construction of Statistics in a National Monitoring System’, in K. Koser and H. Lutz (eds), The New Migration in Europe. Social Constructions and Social Realities. London: Macmillan Press, pp. 143–62. Basu, P. and S. Coleman. 2008. ‘Migrant Worlds, Material Cultures’, Mobilities 3(3): 313–30. Burrell, K. 2008. ‘Materialising the Border. Spaces of Mobility and Material Culture in Migration from Post-socialist Poland’, Mobilities 3(3): 353–73. European Commission (EC). 2005a. Migration and Development. Some Concrete Orientations, European Commission, Communication from Commission (COM) 390. ———. 2005b. Policy Plan on Legal Migration. European Commission, Communication from Commission (COM) 669. Green, S.F. 2005. Notes from the Balkans. Locating Marginality and Ambiguity on the Greek-Albanian Border. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Ingold, T. 2007. Lines. A Brief History. New York: Routledge. ———. 2011. Being Alive. Essays on Movement, Knowledge and Description. London: Routledge. King, R. 2009. ‘Geography, Islands and Migration in an Era of Global Mobility’. Island Studies Journal 4(1): 53–84. Lefebvre, H. 1991. Production of Space, trans. Nicholson-Smith. Oxford: Donald Blackwell. Massey, D. 2005. For Space. London: Sage. May, J. and N. Thrift. 2001. ‘Introduction’, in J. May and N. Thrift (eds), TimeSpace. Geographies of Temporality. London: Routledge, pp. 1–46. Ministry of Economics (MoE). 2013. Return Migration Support Plan, 2012. Retrieved 14 November 2013 from Newland, K. 2009. ‘Circular Migration and Human Development’. Human Development Research Paper 2009/42. Retrieved 15 October 2013 from

Policy Council. 2014. Guernsey Facts and Figures. St Peter Port: The States of Guernsey. Population Policy Group. 2011. ‘Managing Guernsey’s Population: A Consultation Document’, the States of Guernsey. Ronström, O. 2012. ‘Finding Their Place. Islands as Locus and Focus’, Cultural Geographies, online first DOI: 10.1177/1474474012445446, 1–13. Royle, S. 2001. A Geography of Islands. Small Island Insularity. New York: Routledge. Ruhs, M. 2005. ‘The Potential of Temporary Migration Programmes in Future International Migration Policy’, Geneva: Global Commission on International Migration.

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Skeldon, R. 2012. ‘Going Round in Circles. Circular Migration, Poverty Alleviation and Marginality’, International Migration 50(3): 43–60. Sutton, D.E. 2008. ‘Tradition and Modernity Revisited. Existential Memory Work on a Greek Island’, History and Memory 20 (2): 84–105. ———. 2010. Food and the Senses, The Annual Review of Anthropology 39: 209–23. Triandafyllidou, A. 2010. ‘Towards a Better Understanding of Circular Migration’. Concept paper. Metoikos Project. Pieejams. Retrieved 14 October 2013 from ———. 2013. Circular Migration between Europe and its Neighbourhood. Choice or Necessity? Oxford: Oxford University Press. Williams, A.M. 2009. ‘International Migration, Uneven Regional Development and Polarization’, European Urban and Regional Studies 16(3): 309–22. World Bank, The. 2006. International Labor Migration. Eastern Europe and the Former Soviet Union, Washington, D.C.: The World Bank, Europe and Central Asia Region.

3 Rooting Routes (Non-)Movements in Southern Albania Nataša Gregorič Bon

Act One: Routes Albania, 1 August 2005, 8 a.m. – a long line of cars is slowly moving along the coastal road, most of them going from the Greek-Albanian border to different destinations in Albania. Though the majority of cars display Greek number plates, their drivers are migrants from Albania who have been living and working in Greece for many years already, and who return by ‘the routes of their roots’ (Clifford 1997) every August for the collective holidays in Greece and Albania. Also among this swarm of migrants are those who are going to the Himarë (official Albanian name) or Himara (local Greek name)1 area of southern Albania to spend their summer holidays there. Most of them were born after the 1950s and declare themselves as Himariotes despite never having lived in this area themselves, as it is the place from which at least one of their (grand)parents originates. Before the older generation migrated to Greece following the fall of the communist regime in 1990, many of these migrants lived in the cities of central or northern Albania. They moved with their parents after the establishment of the communist cooperative in Himara in 1957.2 Migrants return to the villages of Himara almost exclusively in the summer months to spend their holidays on its coastal plains. Bonds with the area are created either through links with their parents who live there, through houses and/or tourist facilities that they run on the coast in the summer, or

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simply through feelings of nostalgia. The narrow coastal road with its long line of passing cars could easily symbolize the route that leads migrants to the roots of their ‘home-place’. This chapter questions how migrants living in Greece forge their feelings of rootedness and home through various modes of (im) mobility.3 The ethnographic focus is on various practices of (non-) movement and return to a natal place. The meaning of ‘home’ does not relate to a single place or location but is spatially and temporally diverse and multiple (cf. Janko-Spreizer; Repič; Salazar, this volume). As migrants move between various homes, past and present, deserted and newly built, imaginary and material, and so on, the meaning of home continuously shifts (Rapport and Dawson 1998). The chapter draws a parallel between the seasonal return of migrants, visits to the coastal plains and the religious pilgrimage to Stavridi, enacted annually on the evening before Dormition of the Mother God (Kimisis of Theodokos in Greek). Through all these physical movements in/through the natal place (vendi/topos4) the people of Himara make their home and place of belonging. The repetitive rhythms formed by various modes of movement generate new meanings of home, through which the migrants ensure attachment to their natal place. Similar to the meanings of place, the meanings of home and belonging are relational since they are constituted through different practices of (im)mobility of people, things, ideas, places and landscape.

Traditional Mobility Practice, Kurbet As noted in the introduction, mobility and movement in this area is not a phenomenon confined to the twentieth century, since its people have been mobile throughout history. In Albania, movement is an important part of kurbet, a traditional mobility practice that was prevalent throughout the period of the Ottoman Empire. Etymologically, kurbet originates from the Arabic, l ghurbeh, meaning ‘a journey to, or a sojourn in a foreign land’ usually for work purposes, or being far from home and homeland; it is thus associated with alienation and pain (see Juntunen 2013: 58–61). Even now, the Albanian term kurbet still carries the idea of pain (dhimbje/ponos) and longing for home and family. Numerous Albanian folk and literary works (e.g., Çajupi 1990: 79) describe kurbet and the related suffering of migrants (kurbetilli) and their relatives. According to Papailias (2003: 1064), kurbet means ‘being in the world’ and it ‘naturalizes’ gender hierarchies and labour divisions, associated as it

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is with the male domain. A well-known proverb says ‘a man becomes a man out in the world [kurbet] / a woman becomes a woman over the cradle’.5 In this perspective, kurbet used to be part of a man’s initiation ritual (cf. Salazar, this volume). Due to land erosion and a lack of land suitable for cultivation, as well as other economic, social and political changes, many people of Himara left for kurbet to what is today Italy, Greece, Turkey, France, Egypt, the United States, etc., over the course of the past centuries (Gregorič Bon 2008a: 7–27, 2014; see also Polo 2001). Many interlocutors describe kurbet in positive terms, noting that it has brought civilization (civilizim), economic development (zhvillim/ anaptiksi) and general well-being to the area and its people. While the meaning of kurbet, typical of the interwar period, often gets idealized, kurbet is also, paradoxically, described in several rhapsodies as a painful loss experienced on the part of migrants leaving their homes and heroically making sacrifices for their families (Pistrick 2010). Kurbet is also an important part of material culture, materialized in different objects brought from abroad (nga jashtë/apo okso) and through foreign influences registered in architecture and in the place in general. Many of the houses that were built with the money or material that kurbetilli (migrants in the interwar period) sent from abroad are called ‘the American houses’ (shtëpija Amerikane/to Amerikaniko spiti). Similarly today the houses built with remittances sent by migrants living in Greece or Italy are called the Greek (shtëpija Greke/Eleniko spiti) or Italian houses (shtëpija Italiane/Italiko spiti) (see also Dalakoglou 2009).6 In the communist period, when the totalitarian regime of Enver Hoxha forbade private ownership of cars and all border crossings, as well as limiting intra-country movement (see Gregorič Bon 2008a: 51 fn. 18), the mobility practice of kurbet was stopped. After 1990 and the ensuing massive migrations to Greece, Italy and later the United States and other European countries (Mai and Schwandner-Sievers 2003; King and Vullnetari 2003; Vullnetari 2007: 14), this practice was revived again and, in many conversations, kurbet became akin to migration (migrimi/metanastefsi). While the term migrimi is often used to describe administrative and political movements, kurbet addresses the way of being in the world and bears a wider moral, social and psychological meaning in Albanian society. Similar to Indonesian merantau (Salazar, this volume), kurbet is still an important institution of mobility in Albania. Due to the continuous movement of people and things for economic and/or social reasons connecting areas of present-day

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Albania and Greece, the Himara people experience and narrate the polity border as the ‘road’ (to dromo in the local Greek dialect) linking the region with Greece and ‘Europe’ (see Gregorič Bon 2008b: 83–105). The mobility of the Himara people is made possible with the status of co-ethnicity that gives its inhabitants the right to apply for the Special Cards for Aliens of Greek Descent, which, in turn, gives them social and health insurance and allows for unrestricted border crossings over the Albanian-Greek border, as well as others within the Schengen area. But this status is not recognized in the Albanian constitution. In practice, most of the bilingual inhabitants (speaking Greek and Albanian), as well as migrants from the Himara villages, rarely travel to other countries in Europe; however they see and portray their ability to travel ‘freely’ within its borders as symbolic capital with which they differentiate themselves from ‘other’ citizens of Albania. Namely, for the Albanian residents, discounting the members of the Greek minority living in Albania, these borders were hardly passable until the liberalization of the visa regime in December 2010.7

Movements of People and Places The Himara area is not only characterized by the movement of its people but also by its shifting landscape. The area stretches about twenty-five kilometres along the southern Albanian coast. It encompasses eight villages and the municipal town that bears its name. Its size has continuously changed throughout history. Between the fifteenth and eighteenth centuries, the number of villages varied between eight and fifty. In around 1930, the area acquired a configuration that has remained more or less unchanged until the present, extending from Palasa to Qeparo (see Sotiri 2004: 263–64; Duka 2004: 64–66; Bixhili 2004: 12; Gregorič Bon 2008a: 46). The mountainous terrain and the seasonally wet Mediterranean climate are the two main reasons for erosion and land degradation in the Himara region and elsewhere on the southern coast and in the mountainous areas of northern Albania (see Dedej 2002: 12). All these movements, of land, landscape and people, which took place in different historical periods, constituted and defined various locations of Himara in its wider geopolitical and social space. Oral stories recounted by elderly villagers of Himara, which date back to the period between the two world wars, describe their ancestors’ routes, movements and trading with places over the sea and the mountains (see Gregorič Bon 2008a: 169–190). The stories

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about overseas trading routes relate Himara and its people to Greece and Italy where, despite the present economic and fiscal crisis, the storytellers emplace civilization, economic development and general well-being; the stories of paths and movements over the mountains relate the village and its people to Albania, where storytellers emplace poverty and lack of civilization. Through these stories, the storytellers reconstruct the land and water routes and redefine the location of their village. The latter stretches between the sea and the mountains or between Greece and Albania (see Gregorič Bon 2008a). Moreover, the stories illustrate how routes, political and economic divisions and boundaries relate the region to various places that are understood as ‘civilized’ or economically and socially better off according to the geographies of power. The storytellers use the remembrance of their ancestors’ movements to both reconstruct their past and recreate their present, upon which they also base their sense of belonging to the village. Locations have always been defined in relation to other people and places through which the local people and migrants have moved. These continuous movements, connections and separations of people and places ultimately generate the various locations of the area and its surroundings. Indeed, as argued by several scholars (Ingold 2000; Gupta and Ferguson 2001 [1997]; Green 2005), people and places are always constituted through a dynamic interrelation with other people and places. Hence places are not characterized by their homogeneity, but through a set of relations with other people and places.

Act Two: Home Dhermi, 1 August 2005, at 7 p.m. – a dusty Mercedez Benz with Greek number plates parked by the side of a narrow road in Dhermi village in the Himara area. Dimitris, a man of around fifty, stepped out of the car and began stretching his arms and legs. His tired gaze looked up the hill, where old stony houses were spread out. Some seconds later, his wife, Zaharula, stepped out from the back of the car and quickly went to open the front door in order to help an old woman alight. The tired travellers began to ascend the hill, taking a path that led towards one of the old stony houses. Both the man and the woman helped the old woman to climb the hill. Zaharula and Dimitris are migrants who emigrated, together with their children, to Athens after the collapse of communism in 1990. They both come from Dhermi originally. Soon after their wedding,

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and during communist times, they moved to the nearby coastal city of Vlora, where Dimitris worked as a mechanic and Zaharula in the sewing factory. In 1991, they migrated to Athens with their children. In 2000, when Dimitris’ father died, his mother moved to live with them in Athens. According to Dimitris, she was too old to live on her own in the village. In the first years of their life in Greece, Zaharula and Dimitris did various kinds of jobs, from construction, to house cleaning, to farming, etc. Dimitris later got a permanent job in a construction company while Zaharula was employed as a cleaning lady in a primary school in Athens. Almost every summer, they return to their natal village. Their children are now grown up and married and live in their own apartments in Athens. According to Zaharula, they could not wait for summer to arrive, so they could return to the village and see their relatives and friends again whom they had not seen for a year or more. ‘Every time I walk up the hill from where I see my house and have a view of all the village, the mountains, and the sea, I remember that my roots are here in Drimades’, noted Zaharula in one of our conversations. She continued, ‘Though nobody, except loads of work, is waiting for me in this house, I still crave to see and smell it. This is my home/house [spiti]. No matter that I have a home in Athens, too; this home is different, because here are my roots [rizes].’ Zaharula continued describing the chores and obligations awaiting her whenever she returns to the village. The migrants’ return visits include the set of repetitive performances and ritual acts such as driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic, cleaning houses, visiting relatives, etc., all of which re-establish their sense of presence, despite their long social absence from the village community.

Shtëpi, Institution of (Im)mobility In Albanian, as well as in Greek, there is no distinction between ‘home’ and ‘house’ (Dalakoglou 2009: 63fn.). Though people often use the word shtëpi (Albanian) or spiti (Greek) for either in daily conversation, the meaning is not always synonymous. Shtëpi, alongside the term fis (patrilineage), refers to one of the core units of the Albanian kinship (de Rapper 2012a: 81). In the Himara area, the shtëpi/spiti is the basis of the individual’s mode of ‘dwelling’ (Ingold 2000). Michael Jackson (1995: 148) writes of Warlpiri in Australia that ‘sense of home is grounded less in a place per se than in activity that goes on in a place’. Similarly Zaharula, Dimitris and other migrants generate their shtëpi/ spiti through various activities (cleaning and rebuilding the house),

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emotions, such as nostalgia and longing, as well as communal practices (visiting relatives, gift-giving) on their return journeys.8 Though none of them plan to return to Dhermi on a permanent basis, they define their village as the vendi/topos of their roots (rrënjët/rizes). Stef Jansen argues that home-making is ‘a dynamic social process in which relationships to places and persons are produced’ (Jansen and Löfving 2007: 16). In Dhermi, this process of home-making is part of a ritual act and thus it is continuously reproduced through memories, feelings of belonging, partying, visiting relatives, cleaning old houses, etc. Home-making is a material manifestation of the migrant’s perpetual state of homecoming and of their claims to a definite locality (see also Dalakoglou 2010: 733). Shtëpisë/spitai (houses) stand in as the material presence of absent migrants because they materialize the relationships between the migrants and the shtëpi/spiti they have left behind. The shtëpi/spiti not only eradicates the spatial distance between Athens and the Himara area but also temporally merges the past with the present and the future. This temporal merging is also present in the migrants’ homecomings, which seem to culminate in different (im)mobility practices. Similar to the Slovenian diasporic community in Argentina (Repič, this volume), the migrants of Himara idealize social relations in nostalgic memories of their erstwhile home-places and sensory feelings (e.g., Zaharula’s smelling of home), transcending the mundane and often difficult realities of their migrant lives in Athens as their ‘host place’ and Himara as their ‘home place’. In this manner, they redefine the meaning of home, which they often experience, and describe, as being sacred.

Act Three: Visit to Coastal Plains Dhermi, 13 August 2005 at 12.30 p.m. – a long line of cars, most with Greek number plates, were slowly descending towards the village coast. Even though the village is only about a kilometre away from the coastal plain, the migrants and other tourists, coming from different areas of Albania, tend to go to the beach by car because of the summer heat. Ana, a teenager, and I were sitting on the back seat of the car driven by Ana’s father. Ana’s mother was sitting in the front passenger seat. After the fall of the communist regime, Ana and her parents migrated to Athens. Every summer holiday they return to the village of their (grand)parents where they spend up to twentyfive days in the house of Ana’s grandfather.

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Many drivers coming down the opposite lane were greeting each other, sometimes even stopping their cars and stepping out to say hello and exchange a few words. Inevitably, this only made the traffic jam worse. During our drive to the coast, Ana’s father was proudly showing me the village, its small churches and chapels, and fields where his fis/soi have orchards of mandarins and plantations of olive trees.9 After about forty minutes we finally reached the coast, where it seemed to be total chaos due to the traffic jam, pedestrians and retail sellers all driving and walking along the narrow street. Ana’s father, Nikos, managed to find a parking space in the car park in front of the nightclub that is owned by his cousin Petros. While Nikos went to ‘walk around’ (xhiro/volta) the coast, Ana, her mother and I went to the beach, next to Petros’ bar, where he was renting out deckchairs and sun umbrellas to tourists. The beach was crowded with people lying on deckchairs or swimming in the sea. Next to us, sitting down, was a group of youngsters (between eighteen and twenty-five years old) with whom Ana and I entered into conversation. They told us that their parents come from the Himara area but they live in Athens, where they emigrated to after the fall of communism. One of the girls spoke of her experience of Himara beach, saying (and I cite verbatim): I really enjoy it here in my native village, the village of my parents, where my grandparents also live, and where my roots are [rizes]. It is a pity I can’t stay longer than twenty-five days as I love this village. Drimades has a wonderful beach and beautiful sea. Here I meet my cousins whom I do not see very often though they live in Athens, too. During the day we enjoy ourselves on the beach, playing volleyball, while in the evening we have fun in the nightclubs.

She continued describing the history of her parents’ families (fis/soi) which her parents had related to her. Marko, in his forties at the time of the interview, shared similar experiences to the young woman. He, too, was born in one of the villages of the Himara area and now lived in Athens with his family. He said the following: We always swim on this side of the beach, where most of the locals are. On the other side of the beach there are mainly foreigners [tourists from other parts of Albania] and I have never felt comfortable there. The summer is great as you can meet a lot of locals here [on the beach] even those who live outside [abroad] … For us this is not just a beach, because it has its history. Our ancestors were trading here, and over there

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[pointing his finger at the rocky pier] used to be a port. Every topos has its name. Do you know those white sandy beaches there that you can see from Llogara [the hilltop from where you descend to Himara area]? It is Meghalihora. And before Meghalihora is Grammata, then Perivolo and here it is Jaliskari [showing the rocky pier in the distance].

‘Roots Tourism’ Jaka Repič (this volume) argues that return is not defined as a single act. Similarly, I interpret the return movements of Himara migrants as a set of journeys, either physical (a series of repetitive acts) or imaginary (memories and nostalgia). In other words, returning has both spatial and temporal implications. It does not only relate to the return to another place but also to another time, which is then related to the present and/or to the past. The section above shows how the returning of the younger generation is different from the returning of the older one. The return movements of young people are not permeated with emotions and past memories as is the case with their parents’ returning; rather, their returns are comparable to ‘roots tourism’, as defined by Basu (2004). He contends that roots tourism is a metaphorical as well as a physical journey, based on claims of belonging, origins and home (2004: 173). When the younger generation are in Himara, they tend to declare themselves as Greeks; yet when they are in Greece, they rarely declare themselves as Albanians, due to the stereotypes and pejorative connotations. Moreover, numerous locals from Dhermi often define them as tourists who are in transit. As one of my interlocutors said: They are in transit, they only travel through [the village] … They see the village as the place where they go to the beach and play volleyball. Then they go to Panorama [a bar and night club] to drink frappé [Nescaféfrappé]. This is Dhermi! And then there is a house, where an old lady lives gives them buke me djathe [bread with cheese] to take with them to the beach. So, this is the place where they play volleyball on the beach, drink frappé in Panorama and sleep in the old house where the old lady lives who happens to be their grandmother.

He went on to say that the younger generation does not know the history of the Himara area, nor its toponomy, and that they are not even interested in these things because they do not want to belong to the village community but only wish to belong to their environment in Athens, where they live.

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The returns of the first generation of migrants, however, are somehow different. They are permeated with nostalgia and sometimes painful journeys to the past, through which they generate their home-place. Their journeys to the coast could be read as an imitation of their seasonal returns to their home(-place) comprising motorized, physical and imaginary journeys, meetings of their relatives, friends and colleagues, and memories of their past places. Returning is thus a diverse and multiple process and conjoins various modes of (non-) movements and (im)mobility. Through them, individuals incessantly recreate their own locations in relation to other people and places, either past or present, ‘domestic’ or ‘foreign’, distant or close, physical or imaginary.

Act Four: Pilgrimage to Stavridi Dhermi, 14 August 2005, 4 p.m. – Zaharula, her niece Eleni and I set out on the journey towards the monastery of Stavridi (‘the Cross’ in Greek), which is situated in the hinterland of Gjinvlashi Mountain that rises behind the village of Ilias in the Himara area. Almost a decade after the fall of the communist regime in the 1990s, which forbade any kind of religious practice, the monastery became an important pilgrimage site where every 14 August, on the eve of the Dormition of the Mother God or the Panayia, one of the important Christian Orthodox feasts, many local people, returnees and migrants gather. In contrast to many other places of pilgrimage in Albania, which are recognized as mixed religious sites and which regained their importance after the fall of communism (de Rapper 2012b), Stavridi is a location that is mainly visited by Christian Orthodox followers from the Himara area. During the pilgrimage in 2005, for example, there were only four Muslims in Stavridi, of whom two were women, one a teenage girl and one a young man. While walking along the pebble-stone path through the valley, Zaharula described her ties to her home-place in Himara. Her husband’s family used to be one of the most prosperous fis/soi in the village. The house which her husband inherited was built in 1920 with the money remitted by her father-in-law from Naples, where he worked as a vocational worker. Thus, even today, their house is referred to as Italiko spiti/Shtëpia Italiane. Although many migrants return to the village after retirement, Zaharula does not plan to return because she thinks that poor infrastructure and inadequate social and health support means that the village does not offer as many

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possibilities as Athens. While Zaharula, Eleni and I were talking, the path began to ascend gradually towards Stavridi. On the way, we met other pilgrims who were walking in groups. Some pilgrims went to Stavridi by car. After an hour of walking, we reached the monastery. Some pilgrims had already gathered in the courtyard where they were waiting to enter a small church, light a candle and dedicate it to the icon of St Mary. Others were setting out mattresses in the courtyard, greeting each other and chatting. With dusk arriving, the place was crowded with pilgrims, most of whom were elderly village women from Himara, migrant families and youths. When darkness fell at nine o’clock, the evening Mass started with only a few pilgrims, mainly older women, attending. After that, dinner followed. While eating, I chatted with Marko and Violeta, a couple whom I knew already, and who attend this pilgrimage almost every year. According to Marko, Stavridi is a place where he can meet others who come from the area but who now live in Greece. He noted that he misses the village a lot because his roots and sense of belonging are here. Asked whether he would return, he responded similarly to Zaharula, because he believes that life in the village does not offer much for a young family like his. However, he went on to add that although he has a house in Greece he will not forget his roots (rrënjet/rizes). The locals know me here. I will never forget an old woman who stopped me when I was walking down to the village one day. Though I never saw her in my life she joyfully greeted me and said that I must definitely belong to the Duni family. She was talking very highly about our family … I have been living in Athens for many years now, where I have spiti and lots of friends, but nobody there knows my family and its history like this local woman does. Therefore, I know that my rizes [roots] are here in this village, and not in Vlora where I grew up nor in Athens where I live now.

In our continuing conversation, Marko talked about the kurbet of his great-grandparents and about their trading relations with today’s Greece and Italy, which were typical of some of the more prosperous families living in Himara: ‘But this was in times when the road was open [otan to dromos itane aniktos] [referring to the Albanian-Greek state border in Greek language]’. The migrants, in a range of settings, seek to recreate their past in order to protect or build their home-place and a sense of belonging. In their pilgrimage to Stavridi, pilgrims redefine their identity through

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their relations and meetings with other people. This allows them to compensate for their feelings of displacement. Identification is thus spatially constituted and related to the processes of home-making; likewise home-making is related to the processes of identification. In the course of our conversation, what began as pilgrims chatting with each other developed into a full-fledged party. This was especially true for the younger migrants, some of whom were dancing to the beat of modern Greek music played on the radio, drinking alcohol and talking loudly, while others were playing different games, such as cards. While the youngsters partied into the early hours of the morning, most of the elderly women and some families with young children went to sleep in the open air. At around five in the morning, when the first sunrays touched the monastery, preparations for the morning Mass started. Everybody was awake, packing up the mattresses and cleaning up for the church ceremony. Around two hundred pilgrims gathered around the small patio by the church, where the Mass was held. Many of them arrived that morning.

Pilgrimage as a Way of Movement In the past, many scholars working in Southeastern Europe focused on the pilgrimages and religious identity of people living in this part of the world (Hayden 2002; Bowman 2012; Albera and Couroucli 2012; Henig 2012, 2015; Eade and Katić 2014; Barkan and Barkey 2015). Many of these studies dwell upon Hayden’s (2002) concept of ‘antagonistic tolerance’ that permeates the sacred spaces where different religious groups meet, coexist and ‘share’ the sacra of religious sites (Barkan and Barkey 2015). Contrary to the wellestablished theme of relations between pilgrimage and movement in the contemporary migrations studies on Western Europe, Africa and Asia, less attention has been paid to this issue in studies of Southeastern Europe. Such studies relate pilgrimage to various modes of movement and conceptualize it in the context of transnational journeys (Eickelman and Piscatori 1990; Tapper 1990; Morinis 1992; Basu 2004; Schramm 2004; Liebelt 2010; Uusihakala 2011). Dale F. Eickelman and James Piscatori (1990) locate pilgrimage within a broader context of profane journeys. Pilgrimage is a mode of mobile performance (Coleman and Eade 2004) and is often analogous to homecoming. In order to encapsulate and reframe its dynamic nature, Paul Basu (2004) and Katharina Schramm Schramm (2004) see rootedness as one of the feelings that pilgrimage evokes. In his analysis of the Scottish diaspora homecomings, Basu (2004: 158) sees

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roots tourism as a response to migrants’ feelings of dislocatedness and their aim to relocate themselves in space and time. The pilgrimage to Stavridi, along with other modes of movement (visits to coastal plains and seasonal returns to the village), is akin to contemporary movements and returns to Himara. Both pilgrimages, as well as homecoming, are tropes for routes, with their spatial and temporal implications related to the process of place-making. Here, a parallel can be drawn with David Henig’s (2012) choreography of sacred sites in Ajvatovica and Karići in Bosnia and Herzegovina. According to the author, the choreography generates not only the intracommunal contestations but also their relations. Parallel to this, the Christian pilgrimage to Stavridi shows the importance of relations, separations and contestations, but it also accents people’s movements, which are enacted either in their homecomings, visits to the coastal plains or in pilgrimages to Stavridi. These movements draw a choreography of Stavridi alongside a choreography of home-location. Pilgrimage is a social event and a basis for social interaction, upon which the migrants constitute their social memory. The villages of the Himara area, their coastal plains and the hinterland of Stavridi are locations of social cohesion and reaffirmation of the present-day real or imaginary social relations. The meaning of cohesion, however, is not synonymous with the meaning of communitas, as defined by Victor and Edith Turner (1978: 15), but it expresses the world of mobility and ongoing movements with which the migrants reaffirm their roots. In line with Coleman and Eade (2004) and Michael Sallnow (2000), who view pilgrimage as a kinaesthetic mapping of space, I argue that the migrants collectively re-enact the routes of their perpetual returns as well as redefining their sense of home and belonging through their pilgrimage to Stavridi. The pilgrimage is based on the seasonal return of migrants and thus can be viewed as an imitation of their ‘homecoming’. In the local Greek dialect of the Himara, no word exists that directly corresponds with the meaning of the English word ‘pilgrimage’. When referring to the ‘pilgrimage’, the local people and migrants use descriptive terms such as ‘going to Stavridi’ (shkojmë në Stavridh/pame yia Stavridi). Only a few of the migrants use the word proskinima, which, in a literal Greek translation, stands for a set of devotions performed when entering the church (Winkelman and Dubisch 2005: xiv). Jill Dubisch (1995: 95) writes, in her study of pilgrimage on the Greek island of Tinos, that the pilgrims do not, even temporarily, break off from their locality: it remains part of

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their everyday life. Likewise, the pilgrimage to Stavridi relates less to the set of devotional practices, such as consecration of the holy icon of Panayia, and more to the pilgrims’ journey and the production of social networks between the migrants and the local population. In other words, journeys to Stavridi are filled with a sense of homeplace and nostalgia, through which past and present belonging is remade. Homecoming can be interpreted as a journey that is imbued with ‘sacredness’ (cf. Liebelt 2010: 263).

Rhythms of (Non-)Movement The content of this chapter explains how the rhythms of various (non-)movements, from migration, return visits, pilgrimage, etc., coincide. Like pilgrimages, various practices of (non-)movement comprise a series of repetitive acts, which together constitute a rhythm that, according to Henri Lefebvre (2004: 8), relates, as well as separates, the cyclical and linear processes, continuation and discontinuation, repetition and difference. Every rhythm, according to Lefebvre, includes repetitions in time and space, reprises and returns. However, these are never identical or absolute repetitions or returns. Every repetition includes a difference and moreover also generates it (Lefebvre 2004: 6–7). Rhythm does not differentiate between movement and stasis/ enclosure or between mobility and immobility but it conjoins them in a continuum. Hence the traditional practices of (im)mobility, such as kurbet and shtëpi/spiti, constitute the continuum through which the rhythm of time and place is generated. When migrants/ people in transit (tourists or pilgrims) return to their natal villages, or when they are socializing on their coastal plains, taking part in the pilgrimage, they forge rhythms that transcend differences between the past of their village lives and the present of their lives in emigration. This enables them to surpass, at least momentarily, the problems that they face in the Himara area as well as in their migratory destination in Athens. The migrants’ roots are not grounded in a single location but are, according to Tim Ingold (2011: 10), defined as lines connecting various locations, entangled in a meshwork where human dwelling unfolds: ‘Lives are led not inside places but through, around, to and from them, from and to places elsewhere’ (Ingold 2000; cf. Ingold 2011: 33). Like the lives of the Roma people of Krško in Slovenia (see Janko Spreizer, this volume) or Latvian migrants in Guernsey

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(see Lulle, this volume), the lives of migrants coming from Himara unfold through the pathways of their journeys, not only in the places they inhabit. To paraphrase Ingold, the Himara migrants dwell in the world as wayfarers who ceaselessly move between Himara and Athens. Accordingly, the migrants’ feelings and claims of rootedness and home are derived from their wayfaring, because these exact claims enable their dwelling in the world of (non-)movement. The migrants’ seasonal return journeys could be seen as homecomings, where the meaning of home not only refers to the materiality of the house, nostalgia, feelings of belonging, holidays and leisure, but also to the meshwork of places to and from which they move and travel. For example, Marko considers having a home (shtëpi/spiti) in Athens as well as in Himara to constitute having ‘roots’ in the latter place. Such a conceptualization of home builds the relation between Himara and Athens and transcends their geographical distance. The location of the places mentioned is thus relative and relational and it is conditioned by wayfaring between particular places through which the relations as well as separations between people and places are generated (see also Janko Spreizer; Repič; Salazar, this volume). Home is made through a set of messy relations and separations, and this makes it a ‘relative location’ (Green 2005).

Conclusion Mobility in Albania is not only a ‘norm’ of contemporary life but has been part of the population’s way of dwelling throughout the centuries. Various modes of (im)mobility, such as kurbet and shtëpi/ spiti have significantly marked the history of the Himara area. Kurbet, as an important social institution, is inscribed in various folk songs, collective memories and individual narratives about the past and present movements to Greece, Italy and elsewhere. Through them, local people and migrants constitute and reaffirm differences, as well as similarities, with other people and places, and reconstruct feelings of belonging and rootedness in their ‘home-place’. The meanings of belonging, home-place and home (shtëpi/spiti) are defined through migrants’ claims of rootedness on the one hand, and through their movements through/in/from the Himara area on the other. When migrants express their feelings of belonging they generate the meaning of home (shtëpi/spiti) as well as their ability to move (kurbet). The relation between movement and home engenders a continuum between mobility and immobility, both being part of

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the same process (Salazar and Smart 2011). Like a place, home is not a fixed location but a relational process, because people in the given historical, political, economic and social context continuously shift its meaning (see also Repič, this volume). In line with Stéphane de Tapia (2010) and Loretta Baldassar (2011), who draw upon the circularity of migrations, the traditional practice of kurbet as well as its contemporary variation migration (migrimi/metanastefsi), emphasize its circularity, which brings not only depletion and loss but also feelings of emplacement and belonging. The status and power that people ascribe to particular places (such as Greece, Italy, Europe and the United States) are economically, politically, socially and historically conditioned and generate ‘geographies of power’ (cf. Massey 2005). From this perspective, some places and territories are defined as central and others as peripheral. The central and peripheral positions are ever shifting because they are conditioned with the (non-)movement and (im)mobility of people, things, ideas, economic and political capital (see also Janko Spreizer; Kozorog; Lofranco; Virtanen, this volume). When Zaharula and Marko describe their village past and the trading relations of their ancestors, they give their village the central position, but this becomes peripheral when they compare it to the living standard in Greece. The migrants of Himara are like wayfarers who, through various modes of (non-)movement, create relations between their ‘home’ and other places. This gives them a feeling of rootedness that can vary with each generation. Feelings of rootedness enable them to constitute their identity and reaffirm their attachment to a physical or imaginary place of ‘origin’ and home (shtëpi/spiti). Through roots and routes of return, they build the location of Himara as a series of meetings and trans­ lations. When they manage and negotiate their feelings of belonging, they expose their past and present (non-)movements and define their belonging as the way of ‘dwelling-in-travel’ (cf. Clifford 1997). Pilgrimage is one of the important processes in building social relations and feelings of rootedness in a particular place. The pilgrimage to Stavridi is permeated with feelings of home-place and nostalgia more than feelings of religiosity. Hence, return movements can be interpreted as pilgrimages because they embody ‘sacred’ journeys. The feelings of sacredness have spatial implications because they are based on the migrants’ claims of belonging. The meaning of belonging is not singular but contextual and contingent. Continuous movements and claims of rootedness endow migrants from Himara with feelings of emplacement to a particular location which is shaped by their routes between Athens and Himara.

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The location of Himara is relative because it is relocated through a series of (non-)movements in/through places and relations with other people and places. (Non-)movements are important social institutions in the Himara area. They are not only embodied in people’s practices, daily and seasonal movements but are also part of Himara’s landscape. Hence, it seems that (non-)movements are not only the way in which people dwell in the world, but are also a part of their life experience itself. The rhythms that are generated through various modes of (non-)movements constitute interrelations between Himara as the location of roots and the past and Athens as the location of the present. Moreover, the relative location of Himara is generated through peoples’ movements through/between/in places and through geomorphological movements of the region itself. The soil erosion that is characteristic of this area brought geomorphological, along with demographic, changes to the region. As noted in the introduction, it is not only people who move, but also places that shift their location on the geopolitical and geomorphological maps. Nataša Gregorič Bon is a Research Fellow at the Institute of Anthropological and Spatial Studies of the Research Centre of the Slovenian Academy of Sciences and Arts (ZRC SAZU) and an Assistant Professor at the Postgraduate School ZRC SAZU. She has published widely on spatial anthropology, Europeanization, movement and mobility in southern Albania. She is the author of Spaces of Discordance: Space and Place in the Village of Dhërmi/ Drimades, Southern Albania (ZRC Publishing House). She is a book review editor at the Anthropological Notebooks journal.

Acknowledgements To preserve the anonymity of my interlocutors, all names are pseudonyms. I am grateful for their help and confidence. Earlier versions of this chapter were presented at the EastBordNet COST IS0803 ‘Remaking Eastern Borders’ conference at the University of Catania in 2011, and at the seminar ‘Ethnographies of Mobility’ at the Scientific Research Centre of the Slovenian Academy of Sciences and Arts, Ljubljana in 2013. I am grateful to the participants of both events for their insightful comments and suggestions.

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Notes   1. Despite the bilingual name of the area and its villages, I use the English name in the rest of this chapter.  2. In the communist period, intra-country movements were strictly controlled and one needed a special permit from the local authorities to be able to travel from one place to another within Albania. On the other hand, the communist government encouraged youth from all parts of Albania to study at different universities in the urban areas of the country. Following this initiative, many young people from Himara went to study either in Vlora or Tirana. After completing their studies, many of them found jobs, got married and settled there, so that they could stay on in the city after completing their studies.   3. Using Salazar and Smart’s (2011) definition, I conceptualize (im)mobility and (non-)movements as ‘two sides of the same coin’ that ‘should only be separated for analytical purposes’ (Salazar, this volume).   4. Because the people living in the villages of the Himara are bilingual, I will refer to the southern Albanian and local Greek dialects.   5. ‘Burrin e njeh kurbeti/gruan e njeh djepi’ or literally ‘kurbet knows the man / cradle knows the woman’ (see Pistrick 2010: 30, fn.1).   6. Due to the economic and fiscal crisis which started after 2008, remittances of any kind have now become rare, so that in some cases we can speak about reverse remittances.   7. Despite liberalization, border crossings are still controlled, but not fully restricted for Albanian citizens. They have to present a letter of reference from a physical person or a legal institution when they cross the Schengen border. Besides this, they have to prove on-site that they carry enough money with them (at least fifty euros per day for the duration of their stay).   8. According to Seremetakis (1991), the etymological meaning of ‘nostalgia’ derives from the Greek word nostalgos, where nostó means to return or travel back to one’s homeland, and algó means desire or longing for something with a burning pain, as in longing to undertake the journey back.   9. Whenever people of Himara discuss family clusters that share the same second name, they use the term fis/soi. Although the mentioned terms are used interchangeably and have the same meaning, they are defined differently in the studies of other authors. According to my conversations with the local people of Himara, fis/soi consist of patrilineal descendants who share common ancestors, the surname, the ‘same blood’ and some plots of land such as forests and pastures.

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References Albera D. and M. Couroucli (eds). 2012. Sharing Sacred Spaces in the Mediterranean. Christians, Muslims, and Jews at Shrines and Sanctuaries. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Baldassar, L. 2011. ‘Italian Migrants in Australia and their Relationship to Italy. Return Visits, Transnational Caregiving and the Second Generation’, Journal of Mediterranean Studies, 20(2): 1–28. Barkan, E. and K. Barkey (eds). 2015. Choreographies of Shared Sacred Sites. Religion, Politics, and Conflict Resolution. New York: Columbia University Press. Basu, P. 2004. ‘Route Metaphors of Roots-Tourism in the Scottish Diaspora’, in S. Coleman and J. Eade (eds), Reframing Pilgrimage. Cultures in Motion. London: Routledge, pp. 150–74. Bixhili, F. 2004. Jipet e Iperit. Himariotët. Tiranë: Botimet Toena. Bowman, G. (ed.). 2012. Sharing the Sacra. The Politics and Pragmatics of Inter-communal Relations Around Holy Places. Oxford: Berghahn. Coleman, S. and J. Eade (eds). 2004. Reframing Pilgrimage. Cultures in Motion. London: Routledge. Clifford, J. 1997. Routes. Travel and Translations in the Late Twentieth Century. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Çajupi, A.Z. 1990. Baba-Tomorri. Tiranë: Shtëpia Botuese ‘Naim Frasheri’. Dalakoglou, D. 2009. ‘Building and Ordering Transnationalism. The “Greek House”. Albania as a Material Process’, in D. Miller (ed.), Anthropology and the Individual. A Material Culture Perspective. New York: Berg, pp. 51–68. ———. 2010. ‘Migrating-Remitting-“Building”-Dwelling: House-making as “Proxy” Presence in Postsocialist Albania’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 16: 761–77. Dedej, Z. 2002. National Report on Marine and Coastal Biodiversity. Republic of Albania Tirana, March. (http://nfp-.eionet.eu.int:8180/ convention/other_conv/1075458781) (Retreived October 2007). Dubisch, J. 1995. In a Different Place. Place, Pilgrimage and Politics at a Greek Island Shrine. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Duka, F. 2004. ‘Aspekte social-ekonomike dhe demografike të Himarës gjatë sundimit Osman (shek. XV–XVI)’, in L. Nasi et al. (eds), Himara në Shekuj. Tiranë: Akademia e Shkencave Shqipërisë, pp. 62–95. Eade, J. and M. Katić (eds). 2014. Pilgrimage, Politics and Place-making in Eastern Europe. Crossing the Borders. Surrey: Ashgate. Eickelman, D.F. and J. Piscatori (eds). 1990. Muslim Travellers. Pilgrimage, Migration, and the Religious Imagination. Berkeley: University of California Press. Green, S.F. 2005. Notes from the Balkans. Locating Marginality and Ambiguity on the Greek-Albanian Border. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

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Gregorič Bon, N. 2008a. Prostori neskladij. Etnografija prostora in kraja v vasi Dhërmi/Drimades, južna Albanija. Ljubljana: Založba ZRC. ———. 2008b. ‘“Where are We? Europe or Albania”. Regionalism as Seen by the Local People of Dhërmi/Drimades in Southern Albania’, Dve domovini/Two Homelands 27: 83–106. ———. 2014. ‘Secular Journeys, Sacred Places. Pilgrimage and HomeMaking in the Himarë/Himara Area of Southern Albania’, in M. Katić and J. Eade (eds), Pilgrimage, Politics and Place-Making in Eastern Europe. Crossing the Borders. Surrey: Ashgate, pp. 135–149. Gupta, A. and J. Ferguson (eds). 2001 [1997]. Culture, Power and Place. Explorations in Critical Anthropology. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Hayden, R.M. 2002. ‘Antagonistic Tolerance. Competitive Sharing of Religious Sites in South Asia and the Balkans’. Current Anthropology 43(2): 205–31. Henig, D. 2012. ‘“This is Our Little Hajj”. Muslim Holy Sites and Reappropriation of the Sacred Landscape in Contemporary Bosnia’, American Ethnologist 39(4): 752–66. ———. 2015. ‘Contested Choreographies of Sacred Places in Muslim Bosnia’, in E. Barkan and K. Barkey, Choreographies of Shared Sacred Sites. Religion, Politics, and Conflict Resolution. New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 130–62. Ingold, T. 2000. The Perception of the Environment. Essays in Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. London and New York: Routledge. ———. 2011. Being Alive. Essays on Movements, Knowledge and Description. London: Routledge. Jackson, M. 1995. At Home in the World. Durham: Duke University Press. Jansen, S. and S. Löfving (eds). 2007. ‘Introduction. Movement, Violence, and the Making of Home’. Focaal-European Journal of Anthropology 49: 3–14. Juntunen, M. 2013. ‘Masculine, Mobile and Marginal. Moroccan Men between Morocco and Spain’, in N. Gregorič Bon, Š. Kalčić and N. Rogelja (eds), Ethnographies of Mobility. International Seminar, Programme and Book of Proceedings. Ljubljana: ZRC Publishing House, pp. 58–62. King, R. and J. Vullnetari. 2003. Migration and Development in Albania. Development Research Centre on Migration, Globalisation and Poverty, Working Paper C5. Brighton: University of Sussex. Lefebvre, H. 2004. Rhythmanalysis. Space, Time, and Everyday Life, trans. S. Elden and G. Moore. London: Continuum. Liebelt, C. 2010. ‘Becoming Pilgrims in the Holy Land. On Filipina Domestic Workers’ Struggles and Pilgrimages for a Cause in Israel’, The Asia Pacific Journal of Anthropology 11(3–4): 245–67. Mai, N. and S. Schwandner Sievers. 2003. ‘Albanian Migration and New Transnationalisms’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 29(6): 1059–78.

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Massey, D. 2005. For Space. Los Angeles: Sage. Morinis, E.A. (ed.). 1992. Sacred Journeys. The Anthropology of Pilgrimage. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Papailias, P. 2003. ‘“Money of Kurbet is Money of Blood”. The Making of a “Hero” of Migration at the Greek-Albanian Border’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 29(6): 1059–78. Pistrick, E. 2010. ‘Singing Back the Kurbetlli – Responses to Migration in Albanian Folk Culture’, Anthropological Notebooks 16(2): 29–37. Polo, P. 2001. Qeparoi historik dhe turistik i kapedanëve. Shtëpia Botuese Dita. de Rapper, G. 2012a. ‘Blood and Seed, Trunk and Hearth. Kinship and Common Origin in Southern Albania’, in G. Kera, A. Hemming and E. Pandelejmoni (eds), Albania: Family, Society and Culture in the 20th Century. Berlin: LIT Verlag, pp. 79–95. ———. 2012b. ‘The vakëf. Sharing Religious Space in Albania’, in D. Albera and M. Couroucli (eds), Sharing Sacred Spaces in the Mediterranean. Christians, Muslims, and Jews at Shrines and Sanctuaries. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 29–50. Rapport, N. and A. Dawson (eds). 1998. Migrants of Identity. Perceptions of Home in a World of Movement. Oxford: Berg. Salazar, N.B., and A. Smart. 2011. ‘Anthropological Takes on (Im)Mobility. Introduction’, Identities. Global Studies in Culture and Power 18(6): i–ix. Sallnow, M.J. 2000. ‘Pilgrimage and Cultural Fracture in the Andes’, in J. Eade and M.J. Sallnow (eds), Contesting the Sacred. The Anthropology of Christian Pilgrimage. London: Routledge, pp. 137–53. Schramm, K. 2004. ‘Coming Home to Motherland. Pilgrimage Tourism in Ghana’, in S. Coleman and J. Eade (eds), Reframing Pilgrimage. London: Routledge, pp. 133–49. Seremetakis, N.C. 1991. The Last Word. Women, Death, and Divination in Inner Mani. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Sotiri, N. 2004. ‘E folmja e Himarës’, in L. Nasi et al. (eds), Himara në Shekuj. Tiranë: Akademia e Shkencave Shqipërisë, pp. 263–92. Tapper, N. 1990. ‘Ziyaret. Gender, Movement, and Exchange in a Turkish Community’, in D.F. Eickelman and J. Piscatori (eds), Muslim Travellers. Pilgrimage, Migration, and the Religious Imagination. Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 236–55. de Tapia, S. 2010. ‘New Migratory Configurations: Transnationalism/s, Diaspora/s, Migratory Circulation’, in C. Audebert and M.K. Doraï (eds), Migration in a Globalised World. New Research Issues and Prospects. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, pp. 127–144. Turner, V. and E. Turner. 1978. Image and Pilgrimage in Christian Culture. Columbia: Columbia University Press. Uusihakala, K. 2011. ‘Reminiscence Tours and Pilgrimage Sites. Commemorative Journeys in Ex-Rhodesian Diaspora’. Suomen Antropologi 36(1): 57–64.

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Vullnetari, J. 2007. ‘Albanian Migration and Development. State of the Art Review’, IMISCOE Working Paper, no. 18, September. Winkelman M. and J. Dubisch. 2005. ‘Introduction. The Anthropology of Pilgrimage’, in J. Dubisch and M. Winkelman (eds), Pilgrimage and Healing. Arizona: The University of Arizona Press, pp. ix–xxxvi.

4 Tracing Roots Slovenian Diaspora in Argentina and Return Mobilities Jaka Repič

Introduction: Spatial and Temporal Implications of Diaspora and Return This chapter addresses the spatial and temporal implications of political exile from Slovenia to Argentina after the Second World War and various forms of return mobilities that occurred after Slovenian independence from Yugoslavia in 1991.1 It describes the Slovenian diasporic community in Argentina, established largely by political migrants who escaped Slovenia because of the communist revolution after the Second World War, and explores the concepts of homeland and mythology of return, as well as different practices of return mobilities. Traumatic social memories of exile, mythology of return and politics, and practices of (im) mobility influenced the constitution of the Slovenian diaspora in Argentina, the making of meaningful places (home and homeland) and enduring spatial relations, and, since 1990, such memories have even resulted in return mobilities. These involve roots tourism (cf. Basu 2004), pilgrimages and school excursions to Slovenia, as well as (return) migration to the parental homeland.2 Returning appears in narratives, myths and in life trajectories of migrants and their descendants. Individuals create meaningful meshworks of social and spatial connections that correspond with lines of their movements

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and the making of home-places (see also Virtanen; Janko Spreizer, this volume). Movement is vital to people’s lives and their social realities, as it stimulates fluctuating relations between place, culture and identity. Among the Slovenians in Argentina, diasporic identities and the making of home-places are intertwined with various forms of mobility, but also with immobility, as migrants and their descendants experienced a forty-year-long inability to return. William Safran accentuates the importance of scholarly attention to diasporas to the advancement of ethnicity and migration studies. He defines diasporas as expatriate communities, dispersed from their homeland to several places, in which migrants and their descendants are not fully integrated but, instead, maintain social memories (often traumatic memories of displacement) and myths of homeland and return, and are even engaged in the restoration of homeland (Safran 1991: 83–84; cf. Povrzanović Frykman 2004: 82–85; Brubaker 2005).3 Continuing relationships between and within diasporas, as well as with parental or ancestral homeland, is essential in maintaining group solidarity and identity (see Brah 1996: 180). Similarly, Rogers Brubaker observes that ‘homeland orientation’ is one of the main attributes of diasporas, where a real or imagined homeland is an ‘authoritative source of value, loyalty and identity’ (Brubaker 2005: 5). Diaspora studies have placed significant emphasis on the concept of return, and especially on the myths of return (see Anwar 1979; Clifford 1997), return of migrants and their descendants. However, they have also emphasized variegated forms of returning, for example roots tourism (Basu 2004) and pilgrimages to one’s real or imagined homeland. Paul Basu uses the term ‘roots-tourism’ for any journey that one sees as homecoming, returning, discovery of roots, etc. (2004: 155–156).4 Root metaphors are dominant emic concepts in diaspora, along with other arborescent symbols that depict origin, belonging and community in migrants’ narratives; however, they also imply ‘route metaphor’ or lines of movement from/to home-places (Basu 2004: 155; see also Gregorič Bon, this volume). Similarly, Russell King and Anastasia Christou explore the emic perspective of migrants or travellers who regard their movement as a process of returning to their homeland (2011: 425). Such an approach widens the concept of return and enables a better understanding of the mythology of roots and return, and the multi-placedness of home(lands) as cultural and spatial referents in diaspora (see Brah 1996). In the Slovenian diaspora in Argentina, identification is influenced by social memories of exile, myths of homeland and return, and, further, by establishing various relationships with homeland. In

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the following pages, I explore the three main levels of the making of Slovenian diaspora in Argentina. The first, collective level of diaspora involves a sophisticated organization of the community, its infrastructure, ideology, mythology, ceremonies and rituals, media, schools, places for congregating, etc. I approach this level by exploring the history of displacement and the political context of power relations in which migration and community building took place (cf. Povrzanović Frykman 2004: 86). The second, temporal level involves the persistence of social memories that refer to homeland, post-war exile, suffering, executions and migration, their role and pervasiveness in the community, and their transmittance to younger generations. The third, spatial level consists of making spatial connections along the lines of movement, for example in roots tourism, travels and return migration to Slovenia.

Post-War Exile and the Making of Slovenian Diaspora in Argentina The migration of Slovenian refugees to Argentina after the Second World War was largely politically motivated.5 In the course of May and June 1945, immediately after the war in Europe had come to an end, thousands of refugees escaped from Slovenia in fear of the communist revolution in Yugoslavia, and temporarily settled in refugee camps in Austria and Italy, from where they eventually migrated to Argentina, Canada and several European countries (see Žigon 1998, 2001; Sjekloča 2004; Repič 2006; Švent 2007). Many refugees were soldiers of the anti-communist collaborationist force, the Slovenian Homeguard (Slovensko domobranstvo),6 which fought against the Slovenian partisans.7 In addition to the Homeguard soldiers, the refugees included many civilians who shared anti-communist political sentiments or who were labelled collaborationists. They escaped, afraid of retaliations and the mounting violence of the communist regime. After Germany capitulated and the Communist Party took power in Yugoslavia, thousands of people, either members of the retreating or collaborationist armies or civilian regime opponents, were imprisoned, secretly executed without court trials and buried in mass graves by special squads of the Yugoslav security intelligence agency, OZNA. In Slovenia, the existence of post-war executions was hidden from public knowledge until after independence from Yugoslavia in 1991. The Commission of the Slovenian Government for Resolving Issues

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of Hidden Burials has accounted for over six hundred hidden mass graves, with some estimates rising to over 80,000 people of different nationalities (Slovenians, Croatians, Serbians, German soldiers, etc.) buried in them (see Dežman 2008: 388, 412). Among the victims were approximately 14,000 or even more Slovenians (e.g., Ferenc 2005). Some were captured at home, whereas the majority escaped over the border to Austria and settled in refugee camps, from where they were subsequently repatriated by the British army (see Corsellis 1997: 131). In the refugee camps, strong relations and a relatively sophisticated community organization were established by Slovenians who shared similar traumatic experiences of exile, and who had witnessed repatriations and learned about the executions of their relatives and friends. Later, in Argentina, this functioned as the organizational and ideological foundation of the diasporic community (cf. Corsellis 1997: 137; Arnež 1999; Švent 2007). Between 1947 and 1951, around 6,000 refugees migrated to Argentina, where they established an introverted ethnic community characterized by complex organization and based on shared experiences of exile, a strong political stance and a commitment to preserve ‘Slovenianness’. It has a main centre, United Slovenia, and nine additional local associations in Buenos Aires, Mendoza and San Carlos de Bariloche.8 Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Argentina encouraged European immigration to stimulate industrialization and to establish itself as a European society (Schneider 2000: 72). Its policy of cultural pluralism (pluralismo cultural) enabled migrants to organize ethnic communities and preserve a sense of belonging to another homeland (see Schneider 2000: 27–28). Hence, Slovenian migrants in Argentina found themselves in a favourable socio-political situation and many of them settled in clusters. They established several urban neighbourhoods and cultural centres, organized rituals and celebrations, built churches and sports facilities, founded newspapers and an arts programme, and even voluntary Slovenian primary and secondary schools (see Debeljak 1994; Rant 1998). Those who were integrated in the newly established community struggled passionately to preserve the Slovenian language, culture and, especially, memories – of exile, postwar executions and of homeland. In the early years after emigration, the complex organization of the community resembled an ethnic ghetto, ‘a state within the state’, or ‘little Slovenia’, as some researchers phrased it (Žigon 1998: 57; Sjekloča 2004: 175). ‘Slovenian political emigration organized its own world, independent and dislocated from homeland’ (Rot 1992: 225). Intermarriage with non-Slovenians

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was strictly prohibited and individuals who married Argentinians were cast out of the community. An informant remembered how some of his friends first advised him not to marry a non-Slovenian woman. He was later told by one of the community leaders to stop attending events organized by the association. The community maintained a strong anti-communist ideology and political stance. They preserved memories of exile as the crucial event in their life and one of the core elements in constructing diasporic identity. Narratives of exile, forced repatriation and secret executions, although almost completely erased from official history in Yugoslavia, were preserved in great detail among the migrants, and especially among those who had escaped execution. In the community, these narratives were mythologized and became intrinsic to their rituals and celebrations, publications, Slovenian schools, etc.9 They became crucial in establishing a sense of a shared traumatic past, destiny in exile, life in diaspora and mythology of eventual return to their homeland.

Social Memories of Exile and the Mythology of Return Marija related her memories of when her family escaped across the Alpine Ljubelj pass to Austria when she was seventeen. She witnessed refugees being repatriated from the refugee camps by the British army to Yugoslavia, where they were executed: In May 1945 we escaped from Slovenia. In Europe the war finally ended, but in Yugoslavia it had only begun. … It was very bad until 1946 because they were sending the Homeguard soldiers back home, where they were killed. Not only the soldiers, they were also sending back women, children and elders.10

John Corsellis, who was a British relief worker in Vetrinje (Viktring) refugee camp in southern Austria, also described the forced repatriation of refugees (1997). He remembers that they were bundled into wagons and many of them were sent to their deaths: They were told they were being moved to better accommodation in Italy, in a small town north-east of Venice. They were put in army trucks, taken to the nearest station, and herded on to cattle wagons. The wagons were closed, and the British withdrew. When the men inside the trucks looked out through the grilles and saw the communists coming they howled, because they knew they were going to be killed, but there was nothing they could do. (In McSmith 2008)

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Another British officer, Nigel Nicholson, remembered how he deliberately lied to the refugees before they were repatriated: When they realized they had been betrayed, they began hammering on the inside of the wagon walls, shouting imprecations, not at the partisans but at us, who had betrayed them. This scene was repeated day after day, twice a day. It was the most horrible experience of my life. (ibid.)

Slovenians in Argentina share many accounts of people sent back to Slovenia from the refugee camps only to be tortured and killed; few escaped execution. Stories of executions and the few survivors gained mythical proportions. I have heard and read several versions of the following story of a few young men who escaped being killed in Kočevski Rog. An informant narrated the story: When the whole group of Homeguard soldiers was put in front of the cave and the firing started, they jumped into the cave. They stayed there for three days in the middle of the corpses. They drank blood from the corpses in order to survive in the deep cave. After three days of hiding there was nobody around anymore except for one guard, so they climbed out and fled. The guard must have thought that people were rising from the dead.

In the words of another informant: ‘At the executions, they were shot and fell to the pit caves. Some escaped from the caves, my father among them. He managed to climb out of the cave and came to Austria. But he was sent back. I never saw him again.’ Stories of executions and survivors were also meticulously recorded and publicized in the diaspora (e.g., Kocmur 1965–1971; Kozina 1970) and lately in Slovenia (Zajec, Kozina and Dejak 1998; cf. Švent 2007). An excerpt from one of these records: The train left towards Jesenice and Kranj where the prisoners were taken to a camp. After a few days of starvation and beatings they were transported to Kočevje and then further deep into the forest of Kočevski Rog to their death … Gunshot didn’t find its mark and Janko didn’t wait for the second shot. He was still alive and jumped into the cave. My case was similar. I didn’t wait to be shot either. I jumped into the cave onto a giant pile of corpses of killed homeguard soldiers. Janko signalled to me to move out of the way as I might be buried under the corpses falling into the cave. Lower in the cave there were a few more survivors. Three of us were hiding deep in the cave for two days hoping to escape. (Kozina 1990)

After emigration, Slovenians were not only connected by shared experiences, but also by an anti-communist political position,

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catholic and traditional values,11 and aspirations of returning to their homeland – an aspiration that in the community became a mythology of return (see also Žigon 2001: 142): ‘Our parents entrusted us with preserving Slovenianness. They had suffered greatly, they were exiled, arrived here with nothing. And yet they had raised us with love for our homeland … Now we try to pass that on to our children as well.’ Younger generations were brought up listening to stories of Slovenia: war, exile, forced repatriations, tortures and executions. These accounts have been remembered and narrated in religious and political rituals, community celebrations, in Slovenian schools, published in novels, history books and school textbooks, and even depicted in art (see Rot 1992; Žigon 2001: 136–138; Mislej 1991, 1992; Toplak 2008; Repič 2006, 2008, 2012b, 2013). Such narratives were often internalized as collective memories of trauma and suffering, justifying the intentional preservation of identity or ‘Slovenianness’ as it is often termed. Being a Slovenian in Argentina is not considered unproblematic, especially not for younger generations, but as something one has to struggle to achieve and preserve. An important aspect of preserving identity in diaspora is mastering the Slovenian language: To us, preserving our language also meant preserving our Slovenianness, our relationship to our homeland and protecting our community in Argentina. Our community and the existence of our culture here are endangered, that’s why we struggle to preserve our language and culture.

Social memories and the mythology of return function as symbolic material that enables interpretation of life in Argentina and future aspirations (cf. Gregorič Bon, this volume). Francisco, who was born in Argentina to Slovenian parents, expressed this predicament of displacement: ‘We are all here because of the injustice that our parents had to suffer … I should have been born in Slovenia.’ In his opinion, his parents’ exile from homeland and migration to Argentina fundamentally and irreversibly marked his life trajectory, identity and practices of mobility. Even though the lives of the refugees were initially characterized by exile and migration, there was also a sense of immobility, because they could not return home. The prevailing sense of loss, injustice and inability to return means that the struggle of preserving ‘Slovenianness’, ‘roots’ and knowledge of home(land) is still considered a principal moral obligation. The inability to return during the communist regime in Yugoslavia did not diminish their aspirations to do so. In the refugee

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camps, it was initially believed that communism in Yugoslavia would not last long and that they would soon be able to return without facing some sort of retaliation (see Švent 1995: 46). After testimonies of hidden mass executions by those who managed to escape and who returned to the refugee camps, hopes of returning home soon started fading away (cf. Žigon 2001: 61–62). Some of the migrants immediately abandoned hopes of ever returning because they were too traumatized to go back, even if they could have done so. However, the majority, including community ‘leaders’, preserved the idea of an eventual return and a victory over communism. After migrating to Argentina, the hope of return was still present, though it was soon realized that the migration was not a temporary one. It was only after this realization that the migrants put concerted effort into establishing a strong infrastructure for the community, building cultural and local centres, schools, etc. Their aspirations of return, mixed with memories of exile, executions and of homeland, gained mythical proportions. They were expressed in narratives, publications, rituals and even in projections of a distant future.

Tracing Roots and Return Mobilities Political symbols of homeland, images of landscape and symbols of traditional culture, such as folklore, food and music, are recurrent motifs in the daily life of individuals, and particularly in the community schools, rituals and celebrations (see Golob 2009). Spatial representations of homeland are often very peculiar. On one occasion, when we were sitting at the table, talking and drinking tea, Marija offered some honey. She said: ‘try this honey, it’s very good, homemade from eucalyptus’. And then she added: ‘and it is Slovenian honey’. I was curious as to how eucalyptus honey could be Slovenian, and she explained that her father produced it in Argentina, but that the bees that collected the honey originated from Slovenia. It turned out that her father had brought several queen bees from his visits to Slovenia and raised ‘Slovenian bee families’.12 She said: ‘he raised real Slovenian bees … that are more diligent than the usual American bees’. This example shows that homeland is not merely a physical territory, but a concept, defined by various cultural, moral, social and environmental characteristics and can be represented by pictures, images, narratives, memories, food, folklore or even bees. Most of the houses I visited during my fieldwork in Argentina were full of such representations. Often, there were images of Slovenian

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cultural landscape,13 political symbols such as flags, pictures, paintings and postcards depicting towns, villages and churches, or publications, calendars and tourist souvenirs from Slovenia. One of my informants mentioned on several occasions that ‘the village of Loški potok’, from where his parents originated, ‘is the most beautiful place on earth’ even though he had not yet visited the village, nor even Slovenia, at the time when we first talked about it. Instead he pointed to a painting of the village decorating his house in Buenos Aires. After he visited Slovenia and his father’s village, he admitted it was different from his imagined version. However, walking around the village, he could recognize places from his parents’ numerous accounts. For another informant, returning to her hometown of Škofja Loka was a painful experience. Not only did she remember vividly how her relatives were killed, she was also shocked at how much the place had changed. In her memories, the place was different because it was located in a different time. Upon returning, she realized it was now a different place altogether, and the experience of returning changed her relationship to her home-place: ‘After that visit, I decided never to go back there again.’ When I was invited to the Slovenian association in San Martín, Buenos Aires, at the entrance my eyes were drawn immediately to the two large coats of arms on the wall, one of Slovenia and another of the association. Inside, there were three main areas. The first was for casual meetings and Sunday breakfasts after Mass. It included a kitchen, a bar and a large room with chairs and tables. The walls were decorated with different emblems, such as paintings with motifs of exile and of Slovenia, memorial plaques, posters, even a cloth with an embroidered anthem (the poem Zdravljica by France Prešeren) and some tourist souvenirs from Slovenia. Next, I was shown the open courtyard dominated by two large linden trees planted to provide shade. Linden was chosen because of its special position in Slovenian history, folklore and mythology.14 The second place was a large hall for cultural and sport events, performances and celebrations. Adjacent to it, the third place housed the Gregorij Rožman school, with three classrooms and a small library filled with maps of Slovenia, religious, historical and political books and Argentine and Slovenian flags. Here, generations of children have been taught Slovenian geography, history, literature, language, traditional culture, folk music, etc. Regular Slovenian Mass, along with various political rituals and community celebrations, serve to reaffirm the social memory of exile as well as the importance of remaining true to the ideals of anti-communism and traditional Catholic values.

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The memories and narratives of having been exiled from home, coupled with the imagery and mythology referring to the (parental) homeland and mythology of return, all work to facilitate the construction and preservation of a specific ‘diasporic consciousness’ (Ahmed 1999: 343; cf. Vertovec 1999: 450), in which the ultimate goal is to build and preserve a home away from home. I was often shown specific plants, images, furniture, etc., with an explanation of how they were reminders of home. When talking to Milena, an eighty-eight-year-old woman, in her house in Bariloche in 2011, I was shown a room in the house that resembles a typical living room from a traditional mid-twentieth-century house somewhere in the northern Alpine region of Slovenia. A large green-tiled furnace dominated the room. Next to it were a wooden table, covered by a cloth that resembled Idrija lace, and carved wooden chairs. Above the table hung a chandelier made of ornamented black steel in a typical Kropan blacksmith fashion. She proudly explained that the chandelier was in fact from the Slovenian village of Kropa, and that she had designed every bit of the room and furniture herself. She then asked a Slovenian carpenter, also living in Bariloche, to make it. She offered me some tea and potica,15 and explained she had designed the room in order to have a place that reminds her of home. Various symbols, images, stories, myths and socially communicated and remembered experiences merge in the concepts of origin, home and homeland (Rapport and Dawson 1998; Ahmed 1999; Chapman 2001). They represent an ongoing spatial mapping, in which individuals and the community position themselves in relation to home(lands) and places of residence. Home is not merely a physical place that one claims and belongs to; it represents a localized set of meanings. It can be a mythical place located in narratives, imaginaries and memories. Alternatively, it can also appear in practices of mobility or as a lived experience of a place (see Brah 1996: 188–189; Rapport and Dawson 1998: 7). A place of origin can be conceptualized, remembered or narrated as a house, a village, a city, a country or a homeland (cf. Al-Ali and Koser 2002). But its relative location (in space and in time) is constructed in diaspora because it is always spatially and temporally defined, and placed into (changing) relationships with other places (cf. Lofranco; Lulle, this volume). In diaspora, home(land) is a distant place and belongs to another time. The search for homeland is, for example, expressed in the artworks of Cecilija.16 She was born in Buenos Aires to secondgeneration Slovenian migrants and was raised with a strong sense of being an ethnic Slovenian. In some of her paintings she expresses

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a personal search for home. Among her early exhibitions was one entitled Trails of my Roots and another called Flames of Searching. Her early exhibited work depicts images from her childhood, images of her roots and origin, as in her paintings of landscape and nature, all symbolizing specific places where she either lived, felt connected to, or even had a sense of belonging (see Repič 2010). Of her exhibition, Trails of my Roots, an art critique Ana Sitar wrote:17 In her work, two worlds, two homelands, meet. South America is the world of her childhood, the world where she grew up and where she was constantly aware of another world, the homeland of her ancestors. The diversity of (her) works confirms the eternal connection and interweavement of not only two actual worlds and homelands but the interrelation of the experienced world to the vast world of memory.

In this artist’s diasporic experience, homeland is conceptualized as a distant place in a different time, located in memories. Her search for roots was an artistic movement between meaningful places and resulted in ‘return’ migration to Slovenia. Both the artistic and migratory movements were relational. They led to a reconstruction of spatial relations and an intertwining of social memories of homeland with personal experiences of return mobilities. After the artist migrated to Slovenia, her search for roots was not over, because the location of meaningful places and the relationships between them had changed. Spatial concepts are inherent to identity, ideology, mythology and everyday life in diaspora and imply changeable relationships to places of origin and residence or ‘processes of multi-locationality’ (Brah 1996: 191). Home and homeland are meaningfully constructed and imply multi-local social participation and a changeable, ambivalent relationship towards different places: place of residence and place of origin. Similarly, Alenka Janko Spreizer observes that among the Roma in Slovenia, home can have various geographical locations and material substances (Janko Spreizer, this volume). Basu notes that home, ‘this most commonplace of locations has, in an age characterized by movement, also become one of the most elusive’ (Basu 2004: 161). Spatialization of belonging engenders social constitution of homeland, ‘search for roots’ and return (see Rapport and Dawson 1998: 4; Mlekuž 2000; Repič 2006, 2012a; cf. Vertovec 1999: 447–450). In the Slovenian diaspora in Argentina, a sense of belonging is often divided between the place of origin, asserted through the various ways of preserving language, ‘traditional culture’ and memories and myths of homeland and return, and the place of dwelling and daily incorporation into the surrounding society.

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In the late 1980s, Slovenia went through a period of intense democratization and, in 1991, it declared independence from Yugoslavia. The Slovenian community in Argentina was socially and politically very active in support of independence. Most of those families who actively preserved their Slovenian identity acquired Slovenian citizenship and many engaged in ‘return’ mobilities.18 Returning is usually not a single liminal affair but rather consists of long-term open-ended social processes or regular travel back and forth between Argentina and Slovenia. There are similar observations of return as a long-term process in Aija Lulle’s chapter on Latvian migrants in Guernsey (Lulle, this volume) and in Gregorič Bon’s chapter on return travels among Albanian migrants in Greece (Gregorič Bon, this volume). Gregorič Bon also stresses that return is a multi-layered process: returning not only consists of travelling to a home country or village, but also of meaningful movements within their home-place, such as the pilgrimage to Stavridi, visits to coastal parts of the village, etc. Even for those return migrants who permanently settle in Slovenia, their return is not simply the conclusion of generations-long emigration, even though some might see it that way. Andrej, who was only a small child when his family left Slovenia, explained his understanding of return: ‘My wife and I have always contemplated that the natural ending of our life path that took us away from Slovenia in our childhood would be to return home.’ Return migration started around the independence of Slovenia from Yugoslavia in 1991 and culminated after 2002 due to the economic crisis in Argentina. In the past twenty years, most Argentine Slovenians established some sort of relation with families in Slovenia, often travelled ‘home’ and several hundred of them even resettled in Slovenia.19 A person who migrated to Slovenia in 1990 expressed his perception of return in the following way: ‘After the [Slovenian] independence some of us returned to Slovenia. I have returned even though I was born in Argentina. However, my spiritual homeland has always been Slovenia.’ In fact, most of the recent ‘return’ migrants were born in Argentina and have settled in Slovenia for various reasons, such as studying opportunities or better overall economic and social conditions in Slovenia. They were also motivated by Slovenian ‘roots’ and their emotional attachment to the homeland they had internalized by living in a diasporic community. They established an association ‘Slovenia in the World’ (Slovenija v svetu) to facilitate return migration, and started several other activities that resemble organizational practices

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they knew from their life in diaspora: regular meetings, sport and cultural events, and, for a while, even an Argentinean school and church Mass in Spanish, etc. Even though their formal organization is not as strong as that in Argentina, they usually maintain very strong and far-reaching informal networks. Many other forms of mobility are also considered as returning home, apparent, for example, in roots tourism to Slovenia. Roots tourism can be genealogy-related tourism, a journey home, pilgrimage, or a ‘search for roots’ either by actual emigrants or their descendants (Basu 2004). It can be a mobility practice of retired individuals, family holidays or even younger travellers. This practice has even assumed an institutionalized form as, for example, in a month-long excursion to Slovenia after the successful completion of the Slovenian high school in Argentina (called RAST, Roj abiturentov srednješolskega tečaja). This trip to Slovenia, organized regularly since 1992, is intended as a reward for the effort not only of finishing voluntary ethnic schooling but also for preserving Slovenian language and identity. Part of the excursion consists of visiting particularly important places they have learnt about in school or from their families. They travel to the usual places on the tourist itinerary (e.g., Ljubljana, Piran, etc.), but they also visit execution sites in Kočevski rog and some of the monuments in memory of the executed Homeguard soldiers. At the same time, most of the students visit home villages or the towns of their parents and meet with relatives who live in Slovenia. It is also common for the whole group to climb the highest mountain in Slovenia, Triglav.20 Pilgrimages to sites that are important to the history of both exile and individual families assert the pilgrim’s origin, their experience of displacement and, further, symbolically enact their re-emplacement. It asserts the mythology of homeland and memories of exile, while simultaneously intertwining social memories and myths with spatial experiences. Moreover, such journeys can even have some very pragmatic consequences, such as getting acquainted with the possibility of migrating to Slovenia. For young Slovenians, this was especially important during the economic crisis in Argentina in early 2000. Nataša Gregorič Bon (this volume) observes that the young descendants of Albanian migrants prefer life in Athens despite the crisis in Greece, but regularly go for holidays to their parents’ native village. Similarly, most of the young root tourists from Argentina travel to Slovenia without any intention of moving there permanently. Many families are divided between Slovenia and Argentina. For this reason, there has been an increase in transnational practices, connections and travel between both countries (cf. Povrzanović Frykman 2004: 79).

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Slovenians in Argentina established their identity, social memories and present life on the notion of the place of origin that is also a moral destination. The mythology of return is manifested in the construction of homeland in diaspora as well as in the process of homecoming, return mobility practices that occur in very diverse forms (see Ahmed 1999; Ahmed et al. 2003; Olwig 2002; Stefansson 2004).

Conclusion This chapter describes historical reasons for the political migration of Slovenians to Argentina and the social memories of war and post-war atrocities that, coupled with anti-communist ideological commitment and home(land) orientation, laid the foundation for the constitution of diaspora. After forty years of inability to return and the fall of communism in Yugoslavia, Slovenian migrants, and particularly their descendants, have started returning to Slovenia, either for visits, pilgrimages, school excursions or actual resettlement. Returning, however, is not unproblematic, because the place they called home has changed. Furthermore, those who were born in Argentina often express ambivalent feelings of belonging to two homelands and experience similar problems to other migrants (cf. Čapo Žmegač 2007). I often heard: ‘In Argentina I feel like a Slovenian, but when I come to Slovenia, I feel like an Argentinean.’ This shows not only the particular conceptualization of spatial division and connection but also profound relationships between the two places, relationships that, once established, are continuously redefined in the diasporic context and enacted in various movements between them. Thus returning also moves or relocates meaningful places by blurring the distance between them (see also Lulle; Gregorič Bon, this volume). Moreover, return mobilities open possibilities for changes of spatial and temporal relations. They represent interaction between actual spatial experiences and socially constructed spatial concepts conveyed by social memory, mythology and aspirations. Spatially, return mobilities converge towards home(land). The Slovenian diaspora is inherently based on the cultural significance of homeland as it was defined in the narratives, memories, imaginaries and even through affirming moral and religious values. Homeland is reconceptualized, reaffirmed and modified through return mobilities and newly established transnational connections. Returning also implies temporal movement. By returning, personal and social memories and imaginaries of places intertwine with contemporary spatial experiences. The knowledge of homeland, either

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remembered by actual migrants or imagined through stories, schools, publications and images, gets modified and embodied through actual experiences of returning. Return, ‘tracing roots’ or homecoming is a temporal and spatial movement and meshes relations between places and times: places of residence, places of origin and home-places, remembered or imagined in diaspora. For Slovenians in Argentina, home(land) is not only a place elsewhere, it is also a place located in a different time(s). It is a place left behind, remembered and preserved in memories and mythology. It is also a place of aspiration towards which life trajectories can gravitate. Thus, return also reveals temporalities of diaspora as it remakes relationships between past (social memories), present and the future (experiences and aspirations of returning). Among Slovenians in Argentina, home(land) is a place not spatially fixed but generated through spatial, temporal and social relations and above all, through movement. Jaka Repič is an Associate Professor and Researcher at the Department of Ethnology and Cultural Anthropology, Faculty of Arts, University of Ljubljana. He writes about Slovenian diaspora in Argentina and return mobilities. His earlier research includes ruralurban migration and informal settlements in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea, and ethnicity issues among the Roma in Slovenia. He is the author of the ‘Tracing the Roots’: Transnational Migrations between Argentina and Europe, Urbanisation and Construction of Ethnic Communities in Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea and co-editor of Places of Encounter.

Notes  1. In ethnographic work, I used participant observation and interviews, but I also focused on the standardization and transmittance of social memories (analysis of narratives and publications) and on discourses, imaginaries and representations of home and homeland.   2. Ethnic Slovenians who migrated from Argentina to Slovenia often, but not always, refer to themselves as return migrants (cf. Batič 2003; Mlekuž 2003; Čebulj-Sajko 2004; Lukšič-Hacin 2002, 2004; Toplak 2004; Repič 2006). I use and analyse the term ‘return migration’ when informants themselves conceptualized it so, regardless of their birthplace.  3. Brubaker points out the proliferation of terms: besides diaspora designating collectivity, it is also used to designate a condition (diasporicity), a process

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(diasporization) and an attribute (diasporic, diasporian) (Brubaker 2005: 4).  4. Arborescent symbols, such as roots, trunk and branches, are commonly used in migration studies, and among migrants in narratives, publications and images, to depict origin, belonging and community cohesion and interconnectedness (cf. Malkki 1997).   5. Previous to this migration, some 30,000 Slovenians settled in Argentina in the 1920s. Most of them were from Primorska, the westernmost region of Slovenia, which had been annexed to Italy under the Treaty of Rapallo in 1920, following the First World War and the dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  6. The Slovenian Homeguard was officially formed in Ljubljana in September 1943 out of anti-partisan paramilitary groups and yielded command to the German army. Its troops were mostly active in the wider Ljubljana region and in southern Slovenia.  7. Slovenian partisans were part of the National Liberation Army and Liberation Front, the main form of resistance in Slovenia and Yugoslavia. In the Liberation Front, the Communist Party played a major role and took power after the war.   8. The community, organized as a voluntary membership-based society, was initially established by people coming from refugee camps, which shared similar destinies and migration routes. However, there is a growing number of Slovenians (by descent) who do not participate in comunity activities. Slovenians who arrived in Argentina in the mid-1950s and later were not easily accepted into the community. Furthermore, many of them did not wish to become members, and some migrants refused to become members, for example due to the strict political position propagated, attitudes towards mixed marriages and other reasons. In this chapter, I mainly describe the working of the community as it had effects on experiences and practices of movement and spatial relations.   9. The Slovenian community in Argentina has a rich history of publishing in the Slovenian language. Apart from books, there are several newspapers that are published regularly. The most important is Svobodna Slovenija (Free Slovenia), published weekly since 1948 by the central organization, United Slovenia. 10. The names of informants are changed or omitted, because certain topics are still highly sensitive both in the diasporic community and in Slovenia. The excerpts from interviews are informants’ personal positions, but nevertheless represent shared ideas on homeland, relation to past events and diasporic identity. The interviews were conducted in Slovenian or Spanish; translations to English are by the author. 11. The Roman Catholic Church had a crucial ideological and organizational role in collaboration during the war as well as in the formation of the community in Argentina. For reasons of space, I do not provide further elaboration on this in this chapter (see Hladnik 1994; Žigon 2001; Repič 2006: 147–159).

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12. In fact, he brought several queen bees of the species Kranjska čebela (Latin name: Apis mellifera carnica), which is recognized as an autochthonous bee species in Slovenia and is globally renowned in apiculture. 13. See Kučan (1998) for a discussion of Slovenian cultural landscape and its uses as a national symbol. 14. Linden tree appears, for example, in a myth of Martin Krpan, first written by Fran Levstik (1858), in which a Slovenian salt trader Martin Krpan saved Vienna from a Turkish invader, but was resented by the Austrian empress for felling a linden tree at her court. The linden leaf was also promoted as a symbol of Slovenia in tourist advertisements in the 1980s and became an unofficial national symbol. 15. Potica is a traditional Slovenian cake, made from rolled dough with, typically, a walnut filling. Slovenian emigrants popularized it in several countries, especially in the United States. 16. See Toplak (2008) and Repič (2010, 2012b) for the relationships between migration and artistic creativity among Slovenians in Argentina. On the art programme in diaspora, see Rot 1994. 17. http://www.sodalitas.at/index.php/gallerie/laufend_more_sl/211/ (retrieved 20 August 2007); http://www.mirenski-grad.si/slikarskarazstava-cecilije-grbec-prepletanje-svetov (retrieved 1 September 2013). 18. Compared to studies of Slovenian emigration, studies of return are rather rare (for studies of return from Argentina see e.g., Batič 2003; Mlekuž 2003; Lukšič-Hacin 2002, 2004; Čebulj-Sajko 2004; Toplak 2004; Repič 2006). 19. The exact number is not available because they arrive as Slovenian citizens and are not registered as immigrants. 20. Triglav is also a national symbol, depicted on the state flag.

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———. 2010. ‘Ambivalent Identities Emerging in Transnational Migrations between Argentina and Slovenia’, Dve domovini/Two Homelands 31: 121–34. ———. 2012a. ‘Les Slovènes d’Argentine. Le concept de patrie dans la construction d’une communauté diasporique’, Ethnologie française 42(2): 231–40. ———. 2012b. ‘Umetnost, urbanost in diaspora. Kulturni center Museo conventillo Marjan Grum v Buenos Airesu’, in J. Repič and J. Hudales (eds), Antropološki vidiki načinov življenja v mestih. Ljubljana: Znanstvena založba Filozofske fakultete, pp. 211–30. ———. 2013. ‘Prazniki, socialni spomin in oblikovanje slovenske skupnosti v Argentini’, in I. Slavec Gradišnik, M. Velikonja and B. Jezernik (eds), Politika praznovanja. Prazniki in oblikovanje skupnosti na Slovenskem. Ljubljana: Znanstvena založba Filozofske fakultete, pp. 153–72. Rot, A. 1992. ‘Slovenski tisk v Argentini po drugi svetovni vojni’, Dve domovini/Two Homelands 2–3: 209–35. ———. 1994. Republika duhov: Štiridesetletnica Slovenske kulturne akcije. Ljubljana: Državna založba Slovenije. Safran, W. 1991. ‘Diasporas in Modern Societies. Myths of Homeland and Return.’ Diaspora 1(1): 83–99. Schneider, A. 2000. Futures Lost. Nostalgia and Identity among Italian Immigrants in Argentina. Oxford: Peter Lang. Sjekloča, M. 2004. Čez morje v pozabo. Argentinci slovenskih korenin in rezultati argentinske integracijske politike. Celje: Fit media. Stefansson, A.H. 2004. ‘Homecomings to the Future. From Diasporic Mythographies to Social Projects of Return’, in F. Markowitz and A.H. Stefansson (eds), Homecomings. Unsettling Paths of Return. Lanham MD: Lexington Books, pp. 2–21. Švent, R. 1995. ‘Begunski usodi naproti’, Dve domovini/Two Homelands 6: 43–51. ———. 2007. Slovenski begunci v Avstriji 1945–1950. Ljubljana: ZRC SAZU. Toplak, K. 2004. ‘Dobrodošli doma? Vračanje slovenskih izseljencev v Republiko Slovenijo’, Dve domovini/Two Homelands 20: 35–51. ———. 2008. ‘Buenas Artes’. Ustvarjalnost Slovencev in njihovih potomcev v Buenos Airesu. Ljubljana: Založba ZRC SAZU. Vertovec, S. 1999. ‘Conceiving and Researching Transnationalism’, Ethnic and Racial Studies 22(2): 447–62. Zajec, M., F. Kozina and F. Dejak. 1998. Ušli so smrti. Poročila treh rešencev iz množičnega groba v Kočevskem Rogu. Celovec, Ljubljana and Vienna: Mohorjeva založba. Žigon, Z. 1998. Otroci dveh domovin. Slovenstvo v Južni Ameriki. Ljubljana: ZRC SAZU. ———. 2001. Iz spomina v prihodnost. Slovenska politična emigracija v Argentini. Ljubljana: ZRC SAZU.

5 Triggering Movement in Places of Belonging Jazz Festival Organizers as Locals-Cosmopolitans in a Small Slovenian Town Miha Kozorog

Introduction This chapter addresses belonging to a place where supposedly ‘not much is going on’, a place that is perceived as ‘quiet’ or ‘still’ by those who belong there. This specific belonging stimulates engagements with movements tied to this particular place: the Slovenian countryside town of Cerkno, where many inhabitants, and particularly the ‘young’, have recently been occupying themselves with organizing popular music and arts festivals. This chapter will focus on the first of several locally-produced festivals – a jazz festival, Jazz Cerkno – and on its organizers, who engaged themselves in the production of the festival in order to trigger movement toward, and within, their hometown, with the aim of ‘disturbing’ the sensed ‘stillness’ of the place. In what follows, I therefore discuss a small number of ‘locals’ from Cerkno,1 whom I deliberately call ‘organizers’ because, firstly, they organize a music festival. Secondly, they are entrepreneurs who organize available resources into new assemblages in order to direct the trajectories of cultural exchange in, and cultural positioning of, ‘their place’. I consider their activity as place-centred ‘production of locality’ (Appadurai 1996: 178–99; Kozorog 2011) in the globally linked-up world (Lovell 1998: 4–5).2

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The festival is analysed here in spatio-temporal terms because it is constituted through, by and in movements. Recent academic discussions of staged events, regardless of whether they are ‘old’ or ‘new’, have stressed the fact that although a festival usually takes place in one particular location, it branches out, incorporates local and non-local dimensions, connects places, cultures, people, etc., and thus constantly transforms its own arrangements and whatever it relates to (Picard and Robinson 2006; Crociani-Windland 2011; Gibson and Connell 2011; Kelemen and Škrbić Alempijević 2012): [I]rrespective of whether the festivals are old or new, they convey a message that relates not only to the contemporary local world, but also to the external world far beyond the boundaries of the immediate community … A festival can, thus, be viewed as a focal point for the merging of local and global narratives, and as an occasion when, and a space where, relations between global, national, regional, and local levels are discussed, negotiated, and, perhaps, redefined. (Selberg 2006: 298)

Moreover, a popular music festival is capable of pushing forward culturally alluring images of effervescence. Such a festival is co-shaped by its mass audience, which has to be brought to a place and stimulated to move within it in order to create vibrancy; it consists of artistic acts, which migrate from one festival to another; it depends on money and equipment, which circulate through the (inter)national economy; it attracts a media presence and advertising, without which it could hardly exist. The modern festival has, accordingly, been described as ‘a phenomenon of our time, which is supplanting community-based remembering with the repetitive structures of events, whose historic and interpretative depth is lost amid a spiralling velocity in the circulation of festival stalls, of tent structures, of props and of performers’ (Küchler, Kürti and Elkadi 2011: 2). As such it may represent an attractive side of the world on the move. And yet, although a festival displaces visitors, hosts, artists, journalists, money, equipment, narratives and so on, and disseminates rapturous images of a frenetic space-time, its organizers might be particularly unwilling to move the festival itself from ‘its place’. This chapter focuses on the attitude of precisely those organizers, who purposely organize a popular music festival in the place of their belonging. It suggests that their organizational activities are primarily motivated by this place, although they claim that it is for the sake of music, art or youth culture.

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Locals-Cosmopolitans The ethnography presented is based on my two-year post-doctoral research (2010–2012), which includes discussions with several organizers of recently started popular music and contemporary arts festivals on the periphery of Slovenia, Italy and Macedonia.3 The majority of organizers interviewed decisively claimed that they would not move their festivals to any other place, even though they had been offered a better deal in some other town, village or city. For example, one of these organizers, from the town of Novo Mesto in southern Slovenia, replied in no uncertain terms to my question about whether he would consider moving the Jazzinty festival to another place if that meant better overall conditions: No! No! It is very important that it takes place in Novo Mesto. Although, because of [local] misunderstandings … we have thought many times about moving the project elsewhere … But, of course, in the end we concluded that here is our home, that we are local patriots, that we have our families here, our lives, and therefore we will absolutely stay here.

Similarly, the organizer of Jazz Cerkno, around which I will structure my argument, claimed the following: No, no way. Look, there were offers and here, well, there were big problems here, too, there always are. Generally, no one will support you. When they go around the world, they like to boast: ‘Well, I’m from Cerkno, there, where the jazz is’, but when you go to the same person and ask for sponsorship, he’d give you a look, as if you were from Mars, as if he did not get what you were talking about … Many [people from the Slovenian jazz scene] say: ‘Move the festival elsewhere, go to some other place, where they will give you money’. No! Not a chance. We will either do it here or nowhere.

Such organizers can, therefore, be viewed as locals of the places in which they organize festivals. Most grew up and still live in these villages and towns, while some have moved away but remain connected to them, but all are motivated by belonging. However, their belonging is specific because it is uncomfortable with a deficiency in ‘their place’, which can be epitomized as ‘killing repetition’. This is why they have chosen to organize festivals at all: to liven the place up. Moreover, through festivals they actively dress ‘their place’ according to an aesthetic appropriate to them, and they create new relations between this place and the ‘world’. Thus, they operate on the basis of an attachment to place, but encompassing a motivation

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to actively transform the place they feel attached to so that it might earn, from their point of view, a more notable status in the ‘global arena’. I therefore propose that their festival engagement has a double agenda, one cosmopolitan and one locality-related, wherein their belonging transcends mere place-attachment (Low and Altman 1992) or affiliation to local people (Cohen 1982). For the discussion of the organizers’ activities, I have constructed a seemingly contradictory concept of the ‘local-cosmopolitan’. This is in contrast to such elaborations of the concept of cosmopolitanism as notably proposed by Ulf Hannerz (1996 [1990]). ‘[T]here are cosmopolitans, and there are locals’ (ibid.: 102), the first are ‘footloose, on the move in the world’ (ibid.: 104), and thus willing ‘to engage with the Other’ (ibid.: 103), the latter stuck in the taken-for-granted world. Hannerz does not, however, ask what it is that makes mobility, the intention of which is to establish new contacts, possible. Later on, definitions of cosmopolitanism split in multiple directions and include non-elitist versions of the concept. Hannerz, too, later developed his own version of non-elitist cosmopolitanism, ‘banal cosmopolitanism’, which may emerge from everyman’s everyday experience of an increasingly interconnected world: ‘it is a matter of being, or becoming, at home in the world’ (2004: 73). I will build on this notion of contemporary experience of being (potentially) ‘at home in the world’ in this chapter, too, also by bearing in mind Hannerz’s further instruction to anthropologists to consider that cosmopolitanisms are geographically positioned (see also Harvey 2009): Cosmopolitanism has to do with a sense of the world as one, but the really existing world is one structured in considerable inequality … [T]here is particular reason to ask how the network of perspectives toward cosmopolitanism is variously grounded in regions of the world as it is now. An attempt to understand cosmopolitanism as a contemporary global key term must be set in the context of the structure of center and periphery – a structure whose continued existence, it should be observed, is itself being debated. (Hannerz 2004: 83)

I consider the question of centre and periphery below. Here I will add a note on the intentionality of local cosmopolitanism. As demonstrated by Noel B. Salazar (2010a), locals with particular occupational skills, for example tourism service providers who are in close contact with travellers, may operate as culture brokers who introduce cosmopolitan world views into local environments. However, what I argue is that there are different degrees of intentionality in such agents’ cosmopolitan aspirations. Some may be deliberately and

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purposefully engaged with cosmopolitanism, others conditionally, for example as professionals. In this respect, I understand the agents discussed here to be engaged with cosmopolitanism on purpose, since organizing a music festival is an activity intended to stimulate various movements and imaginaries that would provide for ‘their place’ a trace of cosmopolitanism. I consider their cosmopolitanism as ‘imagination that is articulated in cultural models of world openness that enable novel understandings and explanations of the local/global nexus’ (Nowicka and Rovisco 2009: 6). A festival is a cultural model with which they occupy themselves in order to flood ‘their place’ with newcomers, new world views and new cultural traits, as represented through art and popular culture. I will argue that their cosmopolitan agenda is essentially concerned with the standing of this place as well as with local material conditions, and operates, in Hirokazu Miyazaki’s terms (2004), on hopeful endurance. A festival is, in this latter sense, a future-orientated mode of action, an expression of anticipated transformation of local conditions that feeds the current, usually less ‘spectacular’ activities, of the organizers.

The Town Turned Upside Down During morning coffee at the Jazz Cerkno festival in 2010, in a bar close to the old square (star plac) where the festival takes place, I asked two locals in their fifties for their opinions of the festival. The first answered with a gesture indicating that to him the festival seemed pointless, while the other added: ‘Yeah, but they [visitors] do come from all over Slovenia, from everywhere!’ The following year, another citizen of a similar age said: ‘Residents of Cerkno have embraced the festival because it attracts visitors.’ The festival has gained reputation among locals, because it has succeeded in directing the flow of festival goers towards this small town and has made it seem alert. The town lies in a mountainous part of Slovenia and has a population of around two thousand. In Socialist Yugoslavia, the area’s economy, which was historically agricultural, came increasingly to be based around ETA Cerkno, a manufacturer of electrothermal appliances that was integrated into global markets from as early as the end of the 1960s. There is also a strong emphasis on tourism. Franja, a partisan hospital from the Second World War, today remains a relevant monument and is included in the European Heritage Label programme and UNESCO’s Tentative List of World Heritage.

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In 1956, the town’s Shrove Tuesday tradition, extinct at that point in time, was revived to become a tourist attraction. Recently, the Slovenian Ministry of Culture has inscribed it in the national register of intangible heritage. Since 1984, a relatively small but successful ski centre has also been operating. Today, Franja hospital and the ski centre attract guests daily during their respective seasons. Cerkno is, therefore, not a bounded environment in any way. However, according to some locals, the town’s everyday life is markedly ‘local’ in character, and this alters only during the Jazz Cerkno festival. In 2010, in the same bar, I entered into a conversation with two ladies from the town, both retired pedagogical workers (aged approximately sixty and eighty), and asked them for their views on the festival. ‘We’re proud of it,’ said the younger one and added, ‘It’s all we have, and then there will not be anything in Cerkno throughout the year. Three days and then nothing.’ I objected, mentioning that they also have Shrove Tuesday. Appalled, they explained that this has become merely a platform for making local political accusations. The elder lady added that many young people, especially the ‘intelligentsia’, are moving away, and that she sees the jazz festival as an event during which all these people return. In her view, during the three festival days, the town and its reputation change dramatically, because the place is turned into an eventful environment, where young people frequent squares, streets and inns. As noted in the introduction to this volume (Gregorič Bon and Repič), contemporary social sciences perceive places as ‘deterri­ torialized’, ‘fluid’, ‘relative’ and ‘emerging’. A place is a ‘flux’ rather than ‘fixation’. However, what is sometimes missing in such mobilityrelated conceptualizations of place is that (im)mobility provides a prominent ideological ground for evaluating places. As Noel Salazar observes, ‘[n]otwithstanding the many kinds of involuntary or forced movements, mobility generally evokes a positive valence, denoting: (1) the ability to move; (2) the ease or freedom of movement; and (3) the tendency to change easily or quickly’ (2010b: 54). Accordingly, a place where ‘interesting people’ move in and out, bring instant or lasting changes and take stories about it to the world, gets credit. But when a place does not fit into this master narrative on mobility, it obviously lacks something, and this engenders aspirations for its correction. In this respect, the popularity of the jazz festival among locals in Cerkno is likely to be connected with the quest for ‘correcting’ the overly quotidian place and its ‘place-image’ (Shields 1991). In addition, various movements are perceived, imagined or stimulated in a diversity of places. ‘Empowered by mass-mediated

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master narratives, imaginaries of mobility have become global’ (Salazar 2010b: 55), and certainly hegemonic. However, ‘they are sent, circulated, transferred, received, accumulated, converted and stored around the world’ (ibid.), and so also have place-bound characters. In places like Cerkno, where people are moving away, this has its own impact on local perceptions of movements triggered by the festival (see also Gregorič Bon, this volume). Places vary, which influences local identification. Unevenly positioned within various culturally-produced geographies, which themselves carry different ideological loads, they shape the selfperception of the subjects who belong there (Tsing 1993; Stewart 1996; Green 2005). Edwin Ardener examined local identity as related to senses of ‘remoteness’ and concluded that ‘it is obviously necessary that “remoteness” has a position in topographical space, but it is defined within a topological space whose features are expressed in a cultural vocabulary’ (2007: 214, original emphasis). I claim that in contemporary Western society, the cultural vocabulary that underlines place hierarchies is largely shaped by claims for desired mobility. ‘Flux, novelty, and speed’, writes Eeva Berglund in the context of Finland (2011: 192), have become the desired virtues in nearly everything, including locations. For example, the rural/urban distinction that ‘underlies many of the power relations that shape the experiences of people in nearly every culture’ (Creed and Ching 1997: 2) has efficiently excluded the presumably too static ‘rural’ pole from hegemonic discourses on (post)modernity (ibid.: 1), which have also launched the celebration of mobility. The case of Cerkno is very much related to rural countryside. Furthermore, it is related to the notion of the ‘state periphery’, which is a loose but effective geographical description of places outside those places where the state apparatus and other agents of affirmed modernity are installed. Sometimes ‘power geometries’ (Massey 2010: 107) shape the statuses of places over a long duration and thus predetermine movements of people, goods, capital, information, etc., which further influences conditions in particular locations, even though centre and periphery are relational categories, which vary culturally (see Janko Spreizer; Virtanen, this volume), and perceptions of ‘centrality’ may change in particular socio-historical conditions (see Lofranco, this volume). Places and the statuses of these places change, however, the changes themselves are significantly conditioned by the topological space and power geometries in which the places are positioned. However, the Jazz Cerkno festival has certainly met claims for mobility. The three-day festival hosts musicians from all over Europe,

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the United States and elsewhere, and annually attracts a few hundred jazz fans, mainly from Slovenia but also, increasingly, from abroad. A prominent member of the Ljubljana jazz scene described his feelings about the festival thus: ‘It is great here because it doesn’t feel like I’m in Slovenia.’ In such a small town, the international composition of guests, and the variety of their personal styles, stand out all the more, and the movement of these few hundred people is noticeable everywhere. The inhabitants of Cerkno experience the event above all as a livening up of the town and, therefore, as a positive change. Although the views I documented vary, I mainly perceived optimism among the locals in the streets and public spaces of the town. An activist in the local youth centre, CMAK,4 himself the organizer of a youth-related festival in Cerkno, described the jazz festival’s impact on the town’s people thus: When you step out of Križanke in Ljubljana [the traditional setting of the Ljubljana Jazz Festival, the largest jazz festival in Slovenia], you don’t feel that you’re at a festival, whereas in Cerkno the whole place breathes. You can ask somebody [in Cerkno] in the middle of December, ‘When is Jazz Cerkno?’ and everyone will tell you it is in mid-May!

Interestingly enough, before the festival started in 1996, Cerkno did not have any jazz history. For most locals, then, jazz is not ‘their music’, but Jazz Cerkno has nonetheless become ‘their festival’. An inhabitant explained to me: ‘People here are peasants. They are not interested in jazz and they don’t like that kind of music, but they like the festival. They will never embrace jazz, but they have embraced the festival.’ A comparison can be made with the jazz festival in Wangaratta, which defines itself as ‘Australia’s Jazz Capital’, but otherwise is a little-known countryside town in northern Victoria. The festival has existed for two decades and ‘mobilizes local community spirit, pride and identity’ (Curtis 2011: 284). However, although Wangaratta ‘has taken jazz for its festival, it has not captured the sound of jazz as an everyday part of the lives of its local population’ (ibid.: 285). In this town, too, a very important factor in the formation of the locality has been the arrival of musicians and audiences, since ‘the town acts as a kind of Mecca for jazz’ (ibid.: 291). What is at stake here is desired mobility linked to a place. Therefore for most people in Cerkno, too, the importance of the jazz festival does not lie in its content, but in its capacity to trigger movement and thus (at least temporarily) change both the place and its image. Moreover, alluring images of the town are then distributed by the mass media. A local artist commented:

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Our parents, the type like my mum, who are traditional people, follow this thing from a distance. They think it is something good, I think partly because it is covered quite a lot by the media. What they get from elsewhere is good enough. … I think it is only because of the media coverage and recognition [by others].

For the inhabitants such recognition is important, because their hometown is not praised in the daily news very often. Nevertheless, for them, it is also important that the media reports about cosmopolitan encounters in Cerkno (or ‘in the Cerkno woods’ or ‘in the Cerkno ravine’), represent them as an adventure, which cannot be experienced anywhere else. Local identity is thus cyclically (annually) addressed during the festival days by images of a cosmopolitan town, which is able to stir up longing of distant Others.

Uncomfortable Place-making What does the notion of place stand for in this chapter? Firstly, relations and movements make it impossible to think of places as bounded entities (Massey 1994). Secondly, places are integral to an individual’s becoming (Ingold 1995); they are bodily, mindfully, emotionally and affectively lived in, growing from environmental into visceral and representational ‘senses of place’ (Lippard 1997). Thirdly, as David Harvey maintains (2009), in addition to emplaced and embodied knowledge (Basso 1996), power is unequally distributed between places (see also Lefebvre 2000). In a state’s power geometry, if one lives in an ‘out-of-the-way place’ (Tsing 1993), this is very different to living in more central places, where, for example, universities, financial institutions, cultural venues and mass media create hegemonic mobilities through their everyday existence. However, to be from somewhere also concerns a person’s attitude towards places, not least towards the place a person is from (Stewart 1996; Green 2005). This section will, therefore, discuss places as (dis) empowering grounds for human agency (Gupta and Ferguson 1997). During the mid-1990s, three local youngsters opened a bar with a concert venue in Cerkno and soon added a festival. In the postsocialist transition of that time, when entrepreneurial initiative was gaining recognition, they took out mortgages on their real estate to raise the necessary capital. However, it is not enough to link these individuals’ actions solely to entrepreneurship, especially not in relation to the festival, which is certainly not the ‘goose that lays golden eggs’.

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Urban legend has it that the organizers of the Cerkno festival found their inspiration in Austria, where important jazz festivals take place in villages. This model purportedly gave rise to the idea that their town, too, could become a music centre. Nevertheless, it seems that a key motive for organizing a festival derived from sensing a particular social crisis in the local environment. A comparison with the conditions that prompted organizers from Hultsfred in Sweden, studied by Jonas Bjälesjö, to start the Rockparty festival there in 1981, may be instructive: ‘The picture that these young people painted was that of an ordinary small industrial town with little activity, industries closing down and people, particularly young people, moving away from the area’ (2002: 20). Young people in Hultsfred thus engaged themselves in producing a festival to fight feelings of geographical marginalization. The organizer of Jazz Cerkno evoked a similar ‘structure of feeling’ (Williams 2005 [1977]): Before we opened the bar, students were not returning to Cerkno at all. They stayed out of Cerkno for a fortnight, three weeks, for as long as they had clean underwear, then they’d come back to Cerkno, change garments, and take the first bus back to Ljubljana [the capital] … As soon as possible back to Ljubljana, into life. We were going there, too, but we had enough of it, because we had to go to Ljubljana. But why would you have to go to Ljubljana, why there, when we could do something here? … After we achieved that students could hardly wait to come back to Cerkno. In three years we had reversed the trend.

I find the material conditions, the moving away of coevals (the ‘intelligentsia’ as mentioned above) to be an important background, which provides a texture for understanding the youngsters’ engagement with place. Through their activities, they tried to reposition their hometown in relation to the centre and trigger a movement in the opposite direction. Peripherality as spatial quality and marginality as a related structure of feeling are of crucial importance here. In post-independence Slovenia, there has been pronounced institutional centralization in the capital, which people on the periphery experience as marginalization. Anxiety and anger sometimes, therefore, characterize local identity to a greater degree than pride per se. Positive views of peripheral conditions are, nevertheless, also present, such as when remoteness is seen as a bulwark against pollution. In spite of this, in such cases, belonging is co-shaped by social crisis. When Anthony P. Cohen wrote about similar conditions, he noted that ‘to remain in these communities is itself an expression of commitment’ (1982: 6). However, he also

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claimed that ‘commitment is sustained by a continuous elaboration of the [local] culture’ (ibid.). From a present-day perspective, it appears that this is not necessarily the case. Locals may express commitment without reference to local culture. The power of popular culture means that the ‘work of imagination’ (Appadurai 1996: 3–4) must be taken into account; therefore, it is also necessary to consider local belonging as containing various possibilities that can be realized through futureorientated ‘production’ of a place, wherein it emerges simultaneously from both existing conditions and aspirations stimulated by popular culture. For many of the current locals, this may indeed be exigency, since they: are compelled constantly to demonstrate that they exist and matter. They must represent themselves so that the fast-moving and perhaps distant audience stops to take note. Their choice is not whether or not to represent, but how. Everywhere one encounters a plethora of spatial representations that render questions about authenticity outdated. (Berglund 2011: 206)

In today’s place-making and belonging, an increasingly important role is therefore played by the logic of branding: the attribution of value to local things (e.g., places, food, products) with the aim of creating symbolic distinctiveness and therefore desirability. As Green has shown (2005), for people from particular places, where they come from and what kind of myths or narratives are formed around ‘their places’ is important to them. When these places do not set out any prominent ‘difference’ in broader spatial imaginaries (Shields 1991), this may be the ground for personal uneasiness among the subjects who belong there. However, this may also engender action. One of the Jazz Cerkno organizers stated that it was never just about jazz for them, but also about promoting the town across Europe, which is why the jazz festival is named for the town.5 But their production of locality does not rely only on branding. In addition, organizers find ways to inscribe the place into the bodies and memories of festival visitors and, in fact, to stimulate a sense of belonging among them as well. They regularly present local (tourist) attractions, e.g., the Franja hospital, to visiting artists in order to attract them to Cerkno. Additionally, educational walks are organized in the town’s surroundings, where festival attendants can collect ‘wild foods’ (edible plants), again to make the experience of this environment more profound. But perhaps the most striking example of creating togetherness between outsiders and locals happens in the pensioners’ club of Cerkno. During the festival this

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tavern is full of all kinds of people, in addition to its usual retired cohort. This is primarily because it is situated inside the jazz festival area and, instead of being closed during the event, it is incorporated into the vibe. Its regular guests, pensioners, are then allowed to enter without paying for a festival ticket. At the same time, festivalgoers frequent this club partly because prices for drinks are lower than elsewhere, but also for the carnivalesque togetherness created in these moments. The atmosphere of this venue adds to the attractiveness of the festival for outsiders. Locals-cosmopolitans thus endeavour to impose local belonging upon outsiders, but they can only achieve this by combining local features with non-local popular culture: in this case, jazz music. Their production of locality is therefore not based on traditional social techniques, which perpetuate ‘local culture’ (Cohen 1982). Instead, they use a festival as a branding tool, which transforms ‘their place’ into a supra-locally relevant entity, making it a ‘proper’ object of desire that engenders belonging for both locals and outsiders. Their own uncomfortable peripheral belonging has thus motivated them into an action that produced new values for their hometown as well as an altered reality, to which these agents would actually like to belong.

Festival as a Method of Hope The initial idea of the festival organizers in Cerkno was to start a bar with an alternative programme to convince local youth that it is possible to make something from the town. However, in the year when they opened the bar, they initiated two rock festivals and a funk festival. The purpose was ‘to make something bigger happen around here’. Obviously the point lay in organizing a festival and not in the kind of music to be performed; jazz was only added later. Since the mid-1990s, this has been a common strategy in many towns throughout Slovenia. The approach was overwhelmingly a grass-roots one, only later followed up by local developmental and tourist institutions. In the 1990s, in places where ‘not much was going on’, a youth or a student club and a festival represented promises of change and transformation for young people. However, the two ‘promises’ operated within different temporalities and spatial frames. A club or bar functions as a local meeting point, designed with the aim of invigorating the local environment throughout the year. Although destined to empower local conditions precisely with

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cosmopolitanism, it has, in many places, unveiled the impotence of local environments, when week after week the ‘same old faces’ would observe how not very much had changed. On the other hand, festivals operate according to a different temporality, because their purpose is not to change the day-to-day atmosphere of a place, but to have an impact once a year. A successful festival may thus turn out to be much more effective in reaching the goal of bringing about cosmopolitan change. Here I apply Miyazaki’s ‘method of hope’ (2004) to festivals, youth venues and their time frames. As already mentioned, the bar in Cerkno has redefined many young people’s attitudes toward their hometown. However, as time has gone by, the bar owners, i.e., the festival organizers, have discovered that, in fact, they have not really changed local conditions through their bar and that they have to keep on fighting for each and every young person’s inclination toward the town: ‘Students … do not have any vision of getting any job here … and we are forced to work even harder than before.’ The festival, however, functions in a different time frame to the bar: as ‘time out of time’ in Falassi’s terms (1987). Their continuous work in the bar is thus complemented by their work in this other timeframe, which feeds back and empowers the first one. The festival is therefore the organizers’ method of hope, an event that takes place once a year, demonstrating that a profound change in the local environment is possible, even though, after it finishes, everything goes back to how it was before. However, it is worth considering the extent to which everything really does return to the status quo. The organizers have discovered that festival interventions may indeed have more enduring consequences. First of all, the festival and the bar encouraged a certain social fervour in the town, especially among the youth. The previously cited artist described to me how they were a direct inspiration for her generation: At the beginning, when CMAK [the local youth centre] was being created, CMAK got loads of feedback from jazz [the festival], from Gabriel [the bar], where concerts were organized. And we came up with the idea to do something similar ourselves … So at one point, we actually got together at Gabriel, to try something similar in our spare time. So it definitely had an impact, and Cmakajne [a festival organized by CMAK] and everything else, definitely, when youth see these concerts, wow, that’s fancy, people come and so on, so it is a key terrain for them.

The already quoted current activist from CMAK described his point of view:

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I think it is an excellent promotion [the Jazz Cerkno festival]. Especially of Cerkno as such. And you can also take pride in it when you go somewhere: ‘I’m from Cerkno.’ ‘From Cerkno? Jazz?’ ‘Yeah, yeah, that’s it.’ I mean, it is something already. Aha, you know it, you know where we are on the map, great! Of course, I’d say the whole community breathes with this. We all do. I’m very happy that there’s the jazz festival, that there’s the PVC film festival … or I Wanna Be Normal [a youth festival in a nearby village] …

On the other hand, as he added, the change made by the festival is not profound and conditions of peripherality remain a part of everyday living: I want to work in Cerkno, but if there’s no chance, I will go elsewhere … [The young] mostly remain in Ljubljana or other cities where they study. It is like this everywhere … People leave. The young go to university in Ljubljana and most stay there. But, like I said, precisely this stuff [festival, youth centre, etc.] can bring new jobs, including that kind. Because, even though many could get jobs at ETA [the electrothermal appliance manufacturer], I worked there too, but I decided to go to university … But if they could get that kind of work, many young people would stay and work here.

From this activist’s statements, it is clear that Jazz Cerkno creates an atmosphere of hope, at least for some people. The profound change in the town, brought by the festival’s interventions each year in mid-May is the ‘food’ which is not only feeding the festival organizers’ efforts, but also convincing others that it is worth persisting in transforming the place. Jazz Cerkno has encouraged both a local and a cosmopolitan identity simultaneously, and, thus, youth in the area today are carrying out a programme that spreads the values of cultural tolerance and curiosity through festivals, workshops and volunteering. One could say that new locals-cosmopolitans have been socialized and educated through the jazz festival. However, following the local municipal elections in 2010, it also became clear how much this local-cosmopolitan project is contingent upon the current local political situation. The newly elected mayor believed that the municipality did not need to support the festival financially any more (or that it should at least reduce its support). This generator of a different locality is, therefore, always being tested, since those in power can quickly interpret it as an intrusion into local matters. Yet another festival organizer from Cerkno, who is not involved with the jazz festival, says:

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There’s a thing with jazz [the festival]. It is the only one [among local festivals] that generates tourists … but these tourists are the kind that also go to Albinca [an old inn in Cerkno frequented by all generations of locals], talk to locals a lot, and so locals accept them … They also research, look for stories, C. [mentions a prominent author] moved to Cerkno because of jazz. You know? [Laughs.] But no one sees this, no one considers that this could also bring something in the long term.

The critical conclusion of the comment is aimed at the local authorities. The festival has demonstrated that the small provincial town is able to accept cosmopolitan encounters, but this has not been incorporated into any durable politics of place. Nevertheless, the festival has become a part of the local political landscape, while it leads its own politics, too. Due to its references to both high and popular culture, it is, on the one hand, able to access state funds and a certain amount of political support and, on the other hand, able to gain popularity and media attention, which empowers the festival’s position regarding local matters. Thus, the above-mentioned entanglement after the municipal elections in 2010 was settled pretty soon, because municipal opponents became aware that the festival had become too big a factor in the Slovenian cultural landscape, and that obstructing it would mean facing trouble in both local and national politics. But leaving aside municipal discords, it is important to recognize what is specific in the Jazz Cerkno festival’s own politics. There one can identify what Steven Feld terms ‘jazz cosmopolitanism’ (2012), which can be defined as the particular knowledge of jazz music and its world that festival organizers use in the prospective moments of reorienting their forward-looking policies. According to Feld, jazz cosmopolitanism is the ability of jazz musicians to know a certain broader world through sound, to intimately experience this world as their own, and to comment (sometimes ironically) on local conditions via engagement through musical practices and experiences. In Cerkno, jazz cosmopolitanism has led to some unpredictable changes. The following example is particularly delightful. The local church did not agree to quietening down the bell-ringing during the festival, which was rather annoying for some musicians. Nevertheless, musicians improvised and incorporated the bell-ringing into their music. However, when Damir Imamović, a Bosnian musician, replied to the bells by imitating an imam’s call to prayer, the festival organizers turned his reaction into politics.6 Namely, the ‘accident’ enhanced the question about tolerance of difference, in this case the ‘difference’

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brought by the jazz festival. The ‘Bosnian tune’ was discussed in the town as a response to the town priest’s lack of tolerance, so festival organizers took advantage of the situation and raised the topic anew with the priest. Representing the festival from another point of view, i.e., as an event that contains potential for enhancement of cultural diversity, which could also become the ground for their own mutual respect and cohabitation, the priest made his own practice a more tolerant one: during subsequent festivals, the church bells remained quiet. This is just one small story of how the ability to interfere with cosmopolitan music practices was translated into politics to implement change into an emplaced practice. The strength of the festival organizers lies precisely in their ability to shift between local idioms and (jazz) cosmopolitanism.

Conclusion The local-global nexus provided by popular music festivals can function as an important contemporaneous medium for producing local belonging; at the same time, it can also be seen as temporarily resolving the contradiction of centre and periphery. For this reason, festivals have become a frequently-used tool in peripheral places. When discussing redefinitions of places and belongings, we should not forget the ‘moral geographies’ (Massey 2010: 107–8) that are imposed upon peripheral places, which highlight the standards as represented by prosperous (national) centres and, on the basis of which, these places are expected to measure their ‘progress’. Mobility is a prominent texture underlying contemporary moral geographies. Moreover, the paradigm of neoliberal cosmopolitanism is also at work: a world view that unifies all places through the act of competition, which has become ‘hegemonic as a universalistic mode of discourse as well as a foundation for public policies worldwide’ (Harvey 2009: 57): [T]he search for monopoly rents leads to a strong emphasis upon the commodification of unique features of an urban environment (such as cultural heritage). If such unique features (such as the Acropolis) do not already exist, then they have to be created (for example, building significant architecture … staging unique cultural events such as film or art festivals …). Urban administrations seek to build up symbolic capital through the development of so-called cultural, knowledge-based, or simply spectacle-driven industries. (ibid.: 67)

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Thus, today just about every place competes with others for notability by investing into ‘culture’ as its ‘urban make-up’ (Frith 1991: 140). However, the practices of grass-roots agents that originate in belonging must be added to the practices of local administrations. Not all festivals are solely the result of local administrations’ branding policies; they can also derive from the ‘branding sense’ of some local residents. Locals-cosmopolitans are not concerned so much with economy as they are with the question of what kind of place they want to belong to. Whereas cosmopolitanism can mean action that ‘enable[s] specific individuals and groups to bridge differences with Others’ (Nowicka and Rovisco 2009: 11), ‘otherness’ in the case described in this chapter (paradoxically) does not apply so much to outsiders as it does to precisely the place in, and from which, the festival organizers act. This is the place that they love; however, in certain hegemonic narratives it is ‘othered’, making their own belonging uneasy. For this reason, they employ a festival to stimulate encounters between ‘interesting’ locals and ‘interesting’ outsiders as well as to promote a good name for ‘their place’, so that (as) locals (they) may feel less Other. The place, which is obviously lacking certain kinds of mobility, predominantly those associated with popular culture, arts and education (to name just a few hegemonic fields of contemporary mobility), is held hostage by the jazz festival, which colonizes it via artists, audiences, journalists, etc., who then take it into the world through many stories. Through the jazz festival, ‘cosmopolitan traits’ mark Cerkno, creating friction, whereby this particular festival inflicts a cosmopolitan ‘blow’ to the local conditions. The cosmopolitan agenda of the organizers is thus to some degree fulfilled, but at the same time they remain aware that their cosmopolitan project is only modestly transforming the place, which is why the festival provides a method for keeping their hopes for the place alive. Miha Kozorog is an assistant in the Department of Ethnology and Cultural Anthropology at the University of Ljubljana, and a Research Fellow at the Research Centre of the Slovenian Academy of Sciences and Arts. His most recent book is Festival Places: Concepts, Politics and Hope at the Periphery (in Slovenian), published in 2013. In 2012, he received recognition of exceptional scientific achievement in the field of anthropology from the Slovenian Research Agency. He is the chief editor of the scientific journal Slovene Ethnological Society Bulletin.

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Acknowledgements This chapter is dedicated to the late organizer of the Jazz Cerkno festival, Boštjan Cvek (1964–2015), who endorsed its initial ideas, which were presented at the seminar Ethnographies of Mobility in Ljubljana (21–22 August 2013).

Notes   1. ‘Locals’ are hereafter defined in terms of belonging and not in terms of sedentarity.  2. Eager to depict a ‘delocalized world’ (1996: 178), Arjun Appadurai defined locality as a sense of being in the world detached from place, but based on ‘social forms’ (‘neighbourhoods’). Nevertheless, his illustration of ‘production of locality’, in which belonging is not pregiven but historically conditioned and actively made through personal and social engagements, is also useful for analysing social mechanisms of place-attachment.   3. I came to research festivals by way of auto-ethnographically reflecting on my own practice of organizing a music festival in the Slovenian town of Tolmin. I applied this experience to semi-structured interviews. In the case that I am presenting, I carried out participant observation at the festival (in 2010 and 2011) with repeated visits to the town outside of the festival period.  4. C.M.A.K. is abbreviation for Cerkljanski mladinski alternativni klub: Cerkno Alternative Youth Club.  5. Relations between centre and periphery can be explained further by referring to Henri Lefebvre (2000). Local ‘spatial practices’, i.e., daily routine, family life, small talks in the local inn, etc., make Cerkno someone’s central place. At the same time ‘representations of space’, maps and models, define it as periphery. This discrepancy creates tension, which may stimulate at least some people to work on ‘representational space’, imaginaries of the town and its symbolic capital, in order to correct the hegemonic national geography by inscribing the town in other hegemonic, i.e., culturally prominent, e.g., artistic, popular musicrelated or simply ‘cosmopolitan’, geographies.   6. In the interview Imamović explained to me that this was a spontaneous reaction that emerged as an improvised imitation of the soundscape of his hometown, Sarajevo, where you can hear church bells and the imam’s call simultaneously.

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References Appadurai, A. 1996. Modernity at Large. Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press. Ardener, E. 2007. The Voice of Prophecy and Other Essays. New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Basso, K.H. 1996. ‘Wisdom Sits in Places. Notes on a Western Apache Landscape’ in S. Feld and K.H. Basso (eds), Senses of Place. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, pp. 53–90. Berglund, E. 2011. ‘Making Space in Finland’s New Economy’ in P.W. Kirby (ed.), Boundless Worlds. An Anthropological Approach to Movement. New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, pp. 191–209. Bjälesjö, J. 2002. ‘The Place in Music and Music in Place’, Ethnologia Scandinavica 32: 20–33. Cohen, A.P. 1982. ‘Belonging. The Experience of Culture’, in A.P. Cohen (ed.), Belonging. Identity and Social Organisation in British Rural Cultures. Manchester: Manchester University Press, pp. 1–17. Creed, G.W. and B. Ching. 1997. ‘Introduction. Recognizing Rusticity: Identity and the Power of Place’, in B. Ching and G.W. Creed (eds), Knowing Your Place. Rural Identity and Cultural Hierarchy. New York and London: Routledge, pp. 1–38. Crociani-Windland, L. 2011. Festivals, Affect and Identity. A Deleuzian Apprenticeship in Central Italian Communities. London and New York: Anthem Press. Curtis, R. 2011. ‘What is Wangaratta to Jazz? The (Re)creation of Place, Music and Community at the Wangaratta Jazz Festival’, in C. Gibson and J. Connell (eds), Festival Places. Revitalising Rural Australia. Bristol, Buffalo and Toronto: Channel View Publications, pp. 280–93. Falassi, A. 1987. ‘Festival. Definition and Morphology’, in A. Falassi (ed.), Time Out of Time. Essays on the Festival. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, pp. 1–10. Feld, S. 2012. Jazz Cosmopolitanism in Accra. Five Musical Years in Ghana. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. Frith, S. 1991. ‘Knowing One’s Place. The Culture of Cultural Industries’, Cultural Studies 1: 134–55. Gibson, C. and J. Connell (eds). 2011. Festival Places. Revitalising Rural Australia. Bristol, Buffalo and Toronto: Channel View Publications. Green, S.F. 2005. Notes from the Balkans. Locating Marginality and Ambiguity on the Greek-Albanian Border. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Gupta, A. and J. Ferguson (eds). 1997. Culture, Power, Place. Explorations in Critical Anthropology. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. Hannerz, U. 1996 [1990]. Transnational Connections. Culture, People, Places. London and New York: Routledge.

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———. 2004. ‘Cosmopolitanism’, in D. Nugent and J. Vincent (eds), A Companion to the Anthropology of Politics. Malden, Oxford and Carlton: Blackwell, pp. 69–85. Harvey, D. 2009. Cosmopolitanism and the Geographies of Freedom. New York: Columbia University Press. Ingold, T. 1995. ‘Building, Dwelling, Living. How Animals and People Make Themselves at Home in the World’, in M. Strathern (ed.), Shifting Contexts. Transformations in Anthropological Knowledge. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 57–80. Kelemen, P. and N. Škrbić Alempijević. 2012. Grad kakav bi trebao biti. Etnološki i kulturnoantropološki osvrti na festivale. Zagreb: Naklada Jesenski i Turk. Kozorog, M. 2011. ‘Festival Tourism and Production of Locality in a Small Slovenian Town’, Journal of Tourism and Cultural Change 9(4): 298–319. Küchler, S., L. Kürti and H. Elkadi. 2011. ‘Festivals. An Introduction’, in S. Küchler, L. Kürti and H. Elkadi (eds), Every Day’s a Festival. Diversity on Show. Wantage: Sean Kingston Publishing, pp. 1–18. Lefebvre, H. 2000. La production de l’espace. 4th edition. Paris: Editions Economica. Lippard, L.R. 1997. The Lure of the Local. Senses of Place in a Multicentered Society. New York: The New Press. Lovell, N. 1998. ‘Introduction’, in N. Lovell (ed.), Locality and Belonging. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 1–24. Low, S.M. and I. Altman. 1992. ‘Place Attachment. A Conceptual Inquiry’, in I. Altman and S.M. Low (eds), Place Attachment. Human Behavior and Environment. New York: Plenum, pp. 1–12. Massey, D. 1994. Space, Place and Gender. Cambridge and Oxford: Polity Press. ———. 2010. World City. Cambridge and Malden: Polity Press. Miyazaki, H. 2004. The Method of Hope. Anthropology, Philosophy, and Fijian Knowledge. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Nowicka, M. and M. Rovisco. 2009. ‘Introduction. Making Sense of Cosmopolitanism’, in M. Nowicka and M. Rovisco (eds), Cosmopolitanism in Practice. Farnham and Burlington: Ashgate, pp. 1–16. Picard, D. and M. Robinson (eds). 2006. Festivals, Tourism and Social Change. Remaking Worlds. Clevedon, Buffalo and Toronto: Channel View Publications. Salazar, N.B. 2010a. ‘Tourism and Cosmopolitanism. A View from Below’, International Journal of Tourism Anthropology 1(1): 55–69. ———. 2010b. ‘Towards an Anthropology of Cultural Mobilities’, Crossings. Journal of Migration and Culture 1: 53–68. Selberg, T. 2006. ‘Festivals as Celebrations of Place in Modern Society. Two Examples from Norway’, Folklore 117(3): 297–312.

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Shields, R. 1991. Places on the Margin. Alternative Geographies of Modernity. London and New York: Routledge. Stewart, K.C. 1996. A Space on the Side of the Road. Cultural Poetics in an ‘Other’ America. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Tsing, A.L. 1993. In the Realm of the Diamond Queen. Marginality in an Out-of-the-Way Place. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Williams, R. 2005 [1977]. Ordinary Culture. Selected Writings. Ljubljana: Studia Humanitatis.

6 Relational Centres in the Amazonian Landscape of Movement Pirjo Kristiina Virtanen

Introduction This chapter discusses how, in Amazonia, personal experiences and embodied relationships with entities in space make places exist. It shows how personal movements, stories and memories of movement constitute a fluid meshwork of places and relationships for the indigenous people in Brazilian Amazonia. My ethnography shows that, for several Manchineris, place-making is a closely related history of personal and collective movements that define ‘us’ and persons in relations to others. Moreover, for this indigenous Amazonian group, places come to exist depending on their altering position and importance in social and economic (re)production. The Manchineri live in the area of the Upper Purus River in the state of Acre, Brazil. Their reserve (demarcated indigenous territory), which is situated next to the Yaco River, hosts the majority of the Manchineri people (some eight hundred Manchineris live in the reserve, whereas around one hundred reside in urban areas, especially in the state capital Rio Branco, and a few families in Assis Brasil and Sena Madureira). The Mamoadate reserve with its several villages has remained relatively closed-off to non-natives: the direction of visits is largely from the reserve to the ‘outside’. The eighty-kilometre distance from the Yaco River to Assis Brasil, the nearest urban area, is covered on foot or by jeep. In the winter (November–April), trekking the distance takes approximately two days, because the rainy season

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makes the route very muddy. Yet the starting point of this route is at least one day’s travel from Extrema, the furthest Manchineri village, and a two-hour canoe trip from the nearest Manchineri village, Peri. In the dry season, Assis Brasil can be reached by jeep, and the drive on a hilly route takes from the river shore approximately four hours. Assis Brasil, with a population of 6,075, is a border town on the Brazilian-Peruvian frontier. From Assis Brasil, it is a five-hour drive along the BR-317 highway to reach Rio Branco, the state capital, with a population of 335,796. Another municipality, Sena Madureira, with a population of 37,993,1 is located at distance of three to six days’ travel by water (depending on the outboard motor used on the canoe and the season). In Acre state, the indigenous population numbers approximately 16,000 members of fifteen different indigenous groups. The recent history of migrations shows that indigenous leaders began to migrate to urban centres in order to demand the demarcation of their lands, a process that also led to the founding of numerous indigenous movements in the 1970s and 1980s. The spatial organizations of Amazonian indigenous peoples’ settlements and households have been discussed by various scholars, influenced by Lévi-Strauss and the structuralist approach (see e.g., C. Hugh-Jones 1979; Turner 1979; Fabian 1992; S. Hugh-Jones 1995). Recent research has shown that the movement of indigenous peoples in Amazonia is linked to spatial re-organization and strategic processes of exchange (e.g., Alexiades 2009; Virtanen 2012, 2015). Yet, even though recent scholarship has drawn attention to Amazonian indigenous peoples’ migration, mobility, and their presence in urban Amazonia (e.g., Andrello 2006; McSweeney and Jokisch 2007; Virtanen 2010, 2012; Alexiades and Peluso 2015), placemaking related to locations outside of village contexts has so far been overlooked. The goal of this chapter is to concentrate on indigenous spatial concepts in the Amazon through movement to locations outside the indigenous territory. My fieldwork was conducted with the Manchineri people from 2003. The methods include discussions, participant observation, photographs, video recordings, as well as drawings made by young Manchineris in 2004–2007. The theoretical tools used come from studies on how personhood and the community are thought of in Amazonia. For many Amazonian native societies, personhood is produced in convivial relations and the body is considered in relation to other subjects, including non-humans (such as animal and plant spirits) (see, for example, Conklin and Morgan 1996; Vilaça 2005; Turner 1995, 2011).

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My analysis of movement also departs from the theories regarding places as relational (Ingold 2000, 2009, 2011; Massey 2005). Tim Ingold has discussed regions through which wayfaring occurs as a meshwork of movement constituted by its inhabitants’ histories of moving through, to and from places. He is interested in looking at individual experiences of locations and their histories, whereas Massey (2005) focuses on space by taking into account power geographies and states, demonstrating how margins and centre are in a constant state of change. Nevertheless, both conceptualize places and spaces through relations and do not consider them to be bounded entities. Knowledge-making is an essential part of what Ingold calls wayfaring. It can be regarded as a continuous movement related to other movements that jointly form a meshwork. Sarah Green’s concept of relative locations links Ingold’s and Massey’s conceptualizations of place and space by looking at the social relations between places and seeing them as continuously shifting (Green 2005, 2012). In this chapter, I show how the relationality of each agent in the Amazonian socio-cosmos is modified when subjectivities move, altering the ways in which people engage with the world and places. I aim to contribute to studies of spatial productions in indigenous Amazonia by looking at movement beyond village contexts. I will also argue that Manchineris’ places and movement can be understood in terms of Ingold’s ‘wayfaring’, even though movement is not completely open-ended for the Manchineri. Rather, movement is expected to contribute to the (re)production of human life and thus to making people through the relationships involved in the travel. This also makes returning ‘home’ a necessary part in the process of movement (see also Gregorič Bon; Repič, this volume). New centres of encounter, especially in urban areas, are valued as places contributing to the Manchineris’ well-being, because they are places of political and cultural meetings, and economic negotiations, where social networks and alliances are constructed.

Movement in the Origin Myths and Moving Beings In several Amazonian indigenous myths, in ancient times (often called ‘the time of the ancestors’), people could speak with animals and other non-human beings. But, later, different beings became associated with specific corporeality typical to their group and their manners and habits. For this reason, indigenous groups refer to themselves as (real) humans, as if humanity is not shared only by people, but

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also some non-human entities, such as animals, plants, objects and meteorological events (see e.g., Viveiros de Castro 1996; Descola 2005; Santos-Granero 2009). Today, in order to see non-human beings (such as animals) as people, special negotiation skills and transformations are needed because the corporeal practices, for instance, of animals and humans, differ; this typically occurs during dreams and rituals. The longest story of the Manchineris’ origin is the story of the Tslatu, Manchineri ancestors and creator heroes. Movement, encounters with other beings and the production of kin are central to this myth. It begins with a young woman’s too intimate relationship with a snake that brought on a deluge, from which only she and her grandmother survived. Following the deluge, the two women started wandering the world, encountering various beings, mostly animals, on the way. Since they did not want to relate with any of the beings they encountered, they continued travelling until, finally, the elder woman had intimate relations with a human type of being, before being eaten by jaguars. From her belly emerged the Tslatu brothers (one of them is named Tslatu). The last part of the long story narrates how the Tslatu brothers took vengeance for their mother’s death, and learned new things that were later essential for the Manchineri. The important factors in this narrative are the movement and time of the ancient peoples. Movement is the vehicle through which the Manchineris’ social difference is constructed through encounters with other beings. The wandering creates a situation wherein new practices can be learned and ‘we’, ‘real humans’ (kin), can be distinguished from others. The people who are considered as Manchineri are called yine, which translates as ‘human’. Despite the fact that they are believed to be the descendants of the Tslatu, Amazonian kinship is not based on consanguinity alone; the kin are produced within various processes of sociality (e.g., Gow 1991; Conklin and Morgan 1996; McCallum 1996). For Manchineri today, these processes encompass producing social relationsips with kin and constant contact with beings beyond the village setting. In indigenous Amazonian villages, houses are often situated next to the central plaza that functions as the centre of social life: it is the venue for meetings, dances, plays and rituals, and is the place from which visits to people’s homes as well as new arrivals at the village and departures from it can be seen. For instance, Gê-speaking peoples’ villages are typically circular, which means that all the houses are visible (Turner 1995). Elsewhere households are situated according to a different logic.

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All Manchineri villages of the Mamoadate reserve are located next to the Yaco River. In most of them, the houses are situated around an open space, where communal buildings such as schoolhouses, a telephone booth, a women’s house for handicrafts, a hut for VHF communication radio, and sanitary facilities, are to be found. The village centre is usually rectangular in form; it is the focal point for seeing ‘us’ as part of the cosmos. In some villages, houses are placed in a line next to a central open space. The space is used for playing football and, in two villages, it serves as an airstrip for light aircraft take-offs and landings. The village centre is also the place from which people can see the world around them; it is the central point of their perspective on the world. As part of daily life, men and women follow the land paths (hatnu) that lead to the forest, lakes and other parts by the river shore when they leave the village centre to go fishing, or to undertake their other activities: men go out hunting and gardening; women leave to gather manioc and other resources.2 The Manchineris’ paths are shared with their kin and with the past generations who also used them. The paths or routes do not usually have different names even if they are different sizes.3 The streets in towns or highways are also called hatnu. This contrasts with the variety of path names among the Maya (Keller 2009). The rivers and their tributaries form one of the Manchineris’ pathways that are also used when hunting, fishing, accessing forest resources or visiting houses that are at a distance from the village centre. These fluvial paths tend to have individual names, for instance Kajpaha, to the Yaco River. Among the Manchineri, the ways in which different beings move is an important part of defining them. People receive their Manchineri names according to the way they move their body or how their body appears and embodies space. For instance, if a person likes to visit places and moves fast, he might be called ‘bee’ (Wrolo). Manchineri names are commonly used in the community; the elders, who are able to see the essential character of a child through their bodies, choose the Manchineri names. In contrast to Portuguese names, which come from the parents and are used on official documents such as identity cards, Manchineri names can change over the course of a person’s lifetime. They can also be given at a later stage in life if there is consensus amongst the kin. This naming demonstrates that personhood is dependent on the way that a person embodies a place, and this is reflected in their name. This is also borne out in the Manchineri attitude to children’s behaviour: they are not punished

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for being too energetic or lively since, as my hostess told me, the elders said that it was the way they truly were. According to the Manchineri, the cosmos is inhabited by a variety of non-human beings, such as animal, tree, ancestor and plant spirits. The movements of animals are imitated in traditional dances, for instance, in order to temporarily (re)produce social relationships with them. The water and forest beings are both constantly on the move. When people move on fluvial or terrestrial paths, they cross the territories of specific animal, plant, tree or water beings and therefore have encounters with them. The Manchineri refer to these beings, with whom they historically have long relations of conviviality, in kin terms (see also Virtanen 2011: 292 on landscape). The movement linked with hunting, gathering and fishing is not only a part of the indigenous people’s way of understanding their history and ecological agency (Rival 2002), but also one of the ways in which the Manchineri continue to produce and navigate their skills and knowledge. During their circulations, engagements with animal and other spirit entities may occur unexpectedly. In these encounters, a nonhuman may teach a person to become a specialist in this nonhuman’s knowledge and power. The teaching may just be ‘received’, for instance in the form of a shamanic chant incorporated when a person knows how to sing it. For example, a young man told me: ‘Mother of the moon [spirit being] … may teach her song to you when you walk in the forest’. The shamanic chants are used in various ways, such as for lessening sadness when far from one’s kin or showing the right path either for actual travel or, more metaphorically, in life. Another young man told about his cousin who had become an excellent hunter after meeting with the father of the forest, masterspirit, in the forest: [In this encounter] my cousin said that the father of the forest asked him what he wanted to be. Whether he wanted to be a hunter. He said that he would like to be a man who kills game. … He said that he would really like to be a hunter. And he went away and the father of the forest stayed there. Now my cousin kills all kinds of game.

I asked what the father of the forest said to him and he answered: ‘That he [the cousin] shouldn’t be furious, or he would kill someone. Now he [the cousin] kills peccaries, and finds tortoises whenever he walks in the forest.’ If a person does not know how to master relations with the Other, the spirit encounter may be so frightful that the interaction develops into a disease or an inability to achieve one’s aim or goal. An example

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of the latter is evident in an extract from a discussion about a hunting trip when the hunters experienced involuntarily the presence of the father of the forest: We climbed above the Paulo Ramos River. Our raft wasn’t good enough to cross the river. We went up the riverbank and made a little shelter. We slept there and in the morning he [the father of the forest] started to make a noise. We were escaping downriver and he followed us. He made a noise. Then a little bit further down we saw tapir tracks and went after them. My companion saw a tapir and shot it, but the bullet passed above it. Because of that, [we knew] he was following us. He can kill people.

Overall, engagements with other beings while moving may change and even transform people. The Manchineri asserted that the aggressive reactions of the father of the forest teach that one should respect the forest beings, so one should approach them respectfully or hunt moderately. The father of the forest also leads hunters to game if the hunter is respectful and, for instance, brings tobacco to him and controls his interactions with the opposite sex. Movement and travel is expressed in several ways in Manchineris’ memories and bodies: movement to and from the village centre generates one’s body, since it defines one’s relations to other beings in the world (not just in the village centre), both human and non-human. It has been reported that, for indigenous Amazonian people, the body is in a constant process of becoming (see e.g., Vilaça 2005). In fact, the whole Amerindian social philosophy is constructed on the importance of the body, and bodies generate different points of view. As Eduardo Viveiros de Castro (1996: 128) notes, in Amerindian thought, ‘the point of view is located in the body’. For instance, hunting requires corporeal transformation and negotiations with different forest spirits (see also Viveiros de Castro 1996; Stolze Lima 1999 [1996]). Members of the community provide evidence in their lives of the results of personal development achieved from movement. Despite the importance of movement in Amazonian cosmology, in certain ‘knots’ of movement pauses can also be experienced. For those who live in a forest environment, their villages are places to pause between continuous movement. There, kinsfolk relate by means of diverse embodied shared practices, establishing the social, economic and cultural production of the community and, importantly, setting them apart from others (cf. Feld and Basso 1996). In the following section, I discuss the history of personal movements and question how experiences of certain places contribute to social reproduction in the conceptualization of the places themselves.

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Conceptualization of Places and Life Trajectories In 2005, I asked the youths in the reserve to name towns and foreign countries they knew or had heard of. The drawings and young people’s explanations of them have led me to understand that the places with which the youth of the reserve have had no contact are all similarly abstract and meaningless to them. Many of the maps sketched by the young Manchineri illustrated only the places that form destinations of visits from the reserve: the indigenous territory (terra indígena) and three closest urban centres, Rio Branco, Sena Madureira and Assis Brasil, are marked, along with the paths between the indigenous territory and Assis Brasil, the paved highway from Assis Brasil to Rio Branco and the new road to Peru. These four locations mark the destinations of Manchineri undertaking longer journeys, and are thus closely related to their lives. In one of the drawings made, the path from the indigenous territory to Assis Brasil is the same length as the highway from Assis Brasil to Rio Branco. The position of the state capital in the upper middle part of the drawing is confirmed by the diverse economic and socio-political relations informing the Manchineris’ present and future: it marks the destination for visits to the principal indigenous health centre of the region; it stands for the political negotiations, cultural manifestations and training courses that take place there. Other sketch maps narrated several countries, states and towns outside the closest region, but the city of Rio Branco was still placed in the centre. The centrality of Rio Branco can be understood through the importance of relating to new people, beings, production, exchange and transformation. The state capital distributes its administrative influence to the municipalities in the state, and the state power is reflected in the social benefits that the government pays to indigenous people, in indigenous education, health care and territorial protection programmes, as well as so-called cultural revitalization. Thus, the integration of the indigenous population to the state through these programmes shapes the Manchineris’ movement from their lands. The state capital is also the source of the flux of many commodities to smaller municipalities and, eventually, to the indigenous territory, including ammunition, petrol, clothes, industrialized food (especially salt, coffee, sugar and vegetable oil), candles and detergents that form the necessary everyday substance of contemporary life. The transport and economic systems are mostly a legacy of the colonization of the Amazon region, which turned

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Rio Branco into one of the strategic centres, especially during the so-called rubber epoch (cf. Castro 2009). A variety of different views of places could be gleaned from the detailed maps made by older Manchineri students at more advanced levels. The students treat the places with which they have had personal relationships (e.g., Sena Madureira, Assis Brasil, Rio Branco) and places of which their knowledge is second-hand (Rio de Janeiro and Brasília) equally. These places, as in the other maps, form a meshwork of locations connected by economic and political relations that particularly affect the lives of the Manchineri in the reserve. These places are thrown into a generic category with very little differentiation. The places outside of Brazil are all similarly abstract and meaningless. The names of Peru and Bolivia were also usually marked onto the maps, owing to increased visits to the Peruvian side of the border to make purchases, and more frequent discussion about illegal loggers, traffickers and smugglers coming from Peru and Bolivia. Ecuador was sometimes included on the maps, because one Manchineri had worked there, at an office of an international organization representing indigenous Amazonian peoples. As a comparison, in the sketch maps produced by young Manchineri in Rio Branco, different continents were marked and the names of towns and foreign countries were hierarchically separated. The Manchineri who live in urban centres require more extensive and detailed knowledge to pass their school exams. Conversations in urban areas and in the media about various places in Brazil as well as about other countries and continents were important contributing factors, alongside information learned at school, for Manchineris to situate their place in relation to other places. The drawings put Brazil and Latin America, as well as other countries most heard of among the youths, on the map. The places as knots are histories of movement and relations (cf. Ingold 2000, 2009) that have different meanings for different people, since their experiences of them, and with people from these places, are different (cf. Casey 1987). Here we have also seen that for an indigenous Amazonian people living in a forest environment, personal movements or other people’s stories of movement create a foundation for places.

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Movement and Alterity In general, the Manchineri are attentive to their dreams and various signs that indicate whether or not undertaking a journey is a good idea. This is common before hunting or travel. The weather might be bad, there might be predators barring the way, the canoe might be flooded or swamped, and so forth. If one dreams of an accident, one stays at home. During movement, personal encounters with other subjectivities can also alter the path that a person takes in his/her life and this adds to knowledge-making. Among the Manchineri, nonhuman entities guide people in their personal lives in several ways. Physical movement is itself directed by the sounds of animals, such as certain birds, who warn about forthcoming dangers or the presence of game.4 In response to these encounters, the traveller either returns or proceeds. Thus, the Manchineris’ movement is not linear and, in line with Tim Ingold’s (2000, 2009) notion, it is best understood as wayfaring. On the way to urban areas, stops are made at the houses of non-natives (payri), such as friendly riverside people and farmers. Exchange of news, information and ideas learnt from others on the way has an important role in the larger picture. Moving is about being able to approach other beings, encounters that may change a person and learning how to master encounters so that they are beneficial instead of leading to others taking control. For many indigenous Amazonian groups, encounters with nonnatives and other indigenous groups have led them to change the way they view themselves (‘us’) vis-à-vis the world (e.g., Turner 1991; Albert and Ramos 2000; Vilaça 2007 [1999]). In addition to various non-humans, such as ancestor spirits, today the Manchineri also define their social position in relation to differences from other indigenous groups and non-natives. Certainly the world ‘outside’ the village also existed then and, even in pre-Columbian times, indigenous people lived in diverse exchange, trade and warfare relations with people from other groups and regions, such as the Andes (e.g., Erickson 2009; Hornborg and Hill 2011). But since colonial times, power dynamics experienced in relation to other peoples, especially non-natives, have altered drastically and have limited interactions that had been common in the past. The relationship to colonizers and to state powers consisted of massacres, slavery, oppression, assimilation politics, and it was only in the late 1980s that the process of democratization guaranteed collective and

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cultural rights for indigenous peoples, giving rise to the demarcation of indigenous lands. Now it is even more essential to create social networks and collaboration with other groups, both indigenous and non-indigenous. Therefore, urban areas, by virtue of being places of encounters, tend to be seen as sources of power (cf. Green 2005 on the ambiguity of margins; Massey 2005 on altering power geometries). The Manchineri youth in the reserve do not perceive themselves to be living at the ‘margins’. However, new types of intergroup contacts have altered the way that existence in the world is understood and this can change further, depending on the situation at hand. Terence Turner (1991), for instance, argues that the Kayapó turned from cosmology to culturalism when they started to see themselves through their own cultural differences from non-natives. Kayapós started to document their own culture and organized their own group into new forms. In general, Latin American indigenous people live a different life now from that of previous generations, and the crucial factor for indigenous people’s current situation is their contact with non-natives and urban areas. The Manchineri are separated from others by their historical and spiritual relationship to the Yaco River and by social processes based on a continuous fabrication of kinship with the community members (Gow 1991; Conklin and Morgan 1996; McCallum 1996), as well as their relations to certain non-human entities. The Manchineris’ homeland is composed of hills, rivers, palm trees, many closely related animals, and other beings that they regard as ancestor spirits and who appear in shamanic visions and dreams, for instance. Moreover, their landscape alters depending on the way the Manchineri think of their ancestors in their environment. This does not exclude their interest in incorporating the power of non-natives, which will be addressed in the following section.

Dealing with Power of Urban Areas There has been a notable increase in Manchineri movement to urban areas as a result of visits to health centres, education, buying and selling products, registering births, collecting pensions and other government benefits, negotiating with officials, or simply getting to know new areas. Even if natural medicine and traditional healing are strong, towns are important, in the words of one boy, because ‘when we are ill, we can get treatment there’. Urban areas (where non-natives typically live) are increasingly becoming more interconnected with the

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reserve through processes of indigenous politics, consumer culture and economic conditions (see Peluso and Alexiades 2005; Chaves 2010; Virtanen 2012). In contrast to the past movements, today’s growing movements are closely related to, and conditioned by, the state (on traditional practices of movement, see also Gregorič Bon; Salazar, this volume), for example, salaried jobs and offering training to indigenous teachers. Some indigenous teachers are even accessing university-level studies in urban areas.5 On the other hand, the ‘urban lifestyle’ has also arrived in the reserves through technological advancements, state schooling and resource extraction established in and organized from cities, which is now overwhelming Amazonia. The direct threats to the forest environment, such as overhunting, overfishing, logging, petroleum extraction, large-scale ranching and pollution, are issues of negotiations with the dominant society. From both Sena Madureira and Assis Brasil, there is a highway to Rio Branco and better telecommunication equipment make interaction with many sectors of the local government, federal police and other partners faster and easier (for instance informing about drug traffickers or illegal loggers). However, many of the Manchineri wish for better transportation technology to improve travel to the municipality. Overall, the production of agricultural and craftwork produce depends on available transportation and market outlets. Likewise, it is crucial for the people in the reserve to become used to taking part in the planning of new economic projects, in price negotiation and selling, and in the design of sustainable communal economic activities that will bring in cash economy. In towns, negotiations take place with government officials, non-governmental workers, church people and others on the streets. That often means presenting the claims and demands of the people who live in the forest environment, but who are affected by several political, economic and religious practices in the urban area. For many Manchineri, visits to urban areas are about appropriating new habits, discourses and errands typical to non-natives. A number of Manchineri have striven for a better understanding of acting and engaging in politics. Such matters include political administration, bureaucracy, conservation policy and state laws affecting indigenous people (see Virtanen 2009). Manchineris’ learning is not only limited to the destinations of their visits, but the journeys themselves includes interactions that contribute to producing constructive relations with non-natives in urban areas. For the Manchineri, towns are the location of commodities and goods, where money matters. This also generates their ambivalent

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character: on the one hand they are a source of resources and new technologies; on the other, they are places of being hungry and thirsty. The first independent visits to urban areas occur during one’s teenage years, and according to my study these form one of the rites of passage for young people in their transition to adulthood (Virtanen 2012). These personal engagements with urban areas are significant in experiencing selfhood. The town alters daily routines, food consumed (e.g., beef instead of game) and corporeal practices. Experiences in narrations of visits to urban areas are often marked by disturbing smells, sounds and tastes, as a young man explained: I thought it was very busy there [Assis Brasil town], many houses, much merchandise, many people. It is just that, for me, it wasn’t good, because there is no fresh smell, nor any wind [like we have in the village]. There the way of walking is different. There is a smell of waste pipes and beef. So, that’s what I thought of the town. I thought it was very hot there.

In fact, many indigenous people complained of becoming ill if they had to spend too much time away from their home communities. The consequent lack of certain forest substances and social practices prevented the reproduction of appropriate body expression, and thus ‘Manchineriness’. On the other hand, some people in the villages felt that sometimes they just wanted to experience different foods and things from the town. In the reserve, people gain their status as moral beings through the process of sharing, including objects acquired from urban areas. While moving in the forest or by river, people can stop at the houses of relatives in order to eat or at least to have a bowl of manioc beer. The same occurs in towns, and people often stay in the houses of kin. But in towns, many unknown faces are encountered. The individual is no longer laughing with, or being laughed at, by people s/he knows. This requires adjustment to different ways of eating, different body practices, different ways of moving and learning how to obtain food. Furthermore, in today’s urban areas, one becomes more aware of differences, such as those based on environmental relations, religion, class and so forth that may change the way one sees one’s position in the world. The knowledge and power that non-natives hold varies (Virtanen 2009). ‘Engaging’ is also about avoiding certain people or making oneself ‘unseen’ when close to them. Some are friendlier and apt to sharing things, whereas others are more difficult to approach. I have elsewhere discussed how indigenousness is produced as a codeshifting in urban areas by employing language, objects and exchange relations, and participating in shamanic rituals, political and cultural

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meetings (Virtanen 2010; cf. Ong 1999). Many indigenous groups have created strategies that help them deal with state power and nonnatives, and this is manifested in their movement and place-making.

Resources, Objectives and Return For the Manchineri, mediation between places outside of their community must involve a return. Return has been specially emphasized in migration studies. Scholars have pointed out that movement is as much about emplacement as it is about displacement (e.g., Ballinger 2012; see also Janko Spreizer; Lofranco, in this volume). For the Manchineri, the idea of return is closely related to the idea of having an objective for a journey.6 Even if the Manchineri love to be mobile, their movement has to have an aim. In the reserve, people who are moving away from the ‘centre’ are also asked where they are going, and those who do not have a clear response, such as ‘to collect wood/materials’, could be regarded as dangerous beings. When people travel, they often sing Manchineri chants to animate themselves, and maintain their objective to return to the kin. Following Ingold’s argument, the lines of movement and wayfaring are essential for one’s well-being, because encounters with different beings are about knowledge-making. But unlike his view, even if the Manchineri wayfarers improvise during their trips, this may involve surprising turns along the way to their final destination: family and collectivity. Certain places, usually villages, become the centres of return where stories about past, present and future movement are (re) lived. In these centres, people are known and defined through their body movements and a history of their movements, which combine to provide resources that create relations with other beings, and thus make persons. Movement to the town and back tends to reproduce and maintain, but also alter, values. The cultural and social meanings of movement between urban areas and the indigenous reserve have their source in this, since experiences in novel places re-establish and reproduce what the community must value and avoid, thus perpetuating existing cultural classifications. This can also be seen as a way of marking one’s territory (see Kirby 2009) as well as enhancing relations to animals, forest and water beings, creating a sense of home, where things are lived from a certain human (Manchineri) perspective (cf. Appadurai 1996; Gilroy 1996). For instance, even though environmental degradation was already taking place, when I first met a young Manchineri man from

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the reserve who was visiting Rio Branco, he told me about his village and how nurturing and rich it was: ‘[There are] the trees, the forest, the river, the sun. There is a house for me to live, meat for me to eat, game, fish, various friends – it’s like when we talk about a supermarket.’ Similarly, when youths from urban areas visit the reserve they, too, feel this difference from the town. Movement in urban areas is largely linked to selfhood, money and consumption, whereas the reserves are associated with the opposite. Thus, as above, the word ‘supermarket’ is often mentioned when talking about the differences between the reserve and towns, though, in urban areas, there is limited access to the abundance of resources. A young man who had been to the village commented on how he felt to be in the reserve for the first time after nine years: ‘Very well. I saw all the people again. Very nice. … Everything is different [here]. [Laughs] There you plant and hunt. Not here: you go to the supermarket.’ The Manchineri constitute the village as a distinct place to continue the practice of different ways of doing and relating to other beings (non-human and human) by several activities, such as hunting and planting. At the opposite end, the same holds true of the towns, because there are crucial actors, institutions and objects, even if they are related differently to the kin. The village (or reserve) and town both become ambiguous margins at a given time and place (cf. Green 2005). Social boundaries, however, are set to ‘our way of doing things’. It is a cultural category that maintains certain categorizations. Moreover, the forest environment plays an important role in this clear distinction between the town and the villages. Doreen Massey (2005) reminds us that there are no places that are nostalgic and different per se but, in their social relations to others, people are made to feel a certain way. Places are always relational: they change in relation to history, present and future. In indigenous Amazonia, the ideas of urban areas, as well as of other places, are generated through the movements of community members. Those who move more to urban areas usually become specialists in ‘translating’ the practices, language and possibilities of the towns into those of the reserve. This is important for the well-being of the community. Several indigenous people aim to establish social networks and alliances, and to appropriate non-natives’ ways of making politics, thus embodying their knowledge and power through their presence in urban offices, educational institutions and even religious movements. Today young men in particular take care of various tasks in urban centres with a range of non-indigenous professionals, and many new places are learnt about and visited

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(Virtanen 2009, 2012). Indigenous people have typically used persons with specialized knowledge as the negotiators with certain beings. Currently, the indigenous spokespeople for specific areas of activity operating in urban places potentially influence a great number of people. Even if a person cannot move because of age, disability, disinterest, inability to interact with non-natives or, simply, lack of transport, other members of his or her community will travel and negotiate with others in places of encounters. Thus, it is not necessary for everybody to travel to the town.

Encounters and Vitality This chapter started off by underlining the importance of movement in Manchineri thinking as a principle of life’s vitality. This is corroborated in their mythology and in the definition of each of the Manchineris’ personhood. The sketch maps that I analysed in the subsequent section demonstrated how personal experiences, memories and stories of encounters with other people are crucial for their conceptualization of place (see also Ingold 2009). In the Amazon, one’s own experiences become knowledge, together with the practices of those closest and their various locations and histories. Movement and visits to places also form a significant part of personal life trajectories. Then I discussed how intergroup dynamics and engagements with new places and their people have changed the Manchineris’ production of ‘us’. I also looked at how this has led them to explain their social difference today. An examination of Manchineris’ wayfaring to urban areas showed how embodying new knowledge and practices in different encounters may contribute to their well-being. A more in-depth focus was reserved for young people’s experiences of translocations to towns. This, in itself, constitutes one of the crucial elements in a young person’s transition to adulthood. It also marks urban places with a certain ambiguity: today people in the forest environment are dependent on interaction with non-natives and novel non-human beings, especially in urban places and their offices, where political decisions are made; without this the community will become powerless and static. However, as discussed at the end of the chapter, the movement’s objective and return are very important aspects of the mobility. It is also what gives the movement its rhythm (cf. Lefebvre 2004). The Manchineris’ ways of shaping their places are tied to their experiences, values, relationships and practices, where the human

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body is at the centre. Personal and communal histories and memories are important elements in understanding the relations to different places: the place-making itself. Locations are changing knots related to trajectories of life (Ingold 2000, 2009). For indigenous Amazonian peoples, the way the space gets embodied at a given time is closely related to temporal dimensions of movement itself: its past, present and future directions and turns. During this ongoing movement, Manchineris’ previous personal embodied movements form their conceptions of places not only at a personal level, but also at a more collective level, shaping them as persons because of their knowledge and relations with the entities they encounter in their movements. The meanings of places may alter (cf. Green 2005; Massey 2005 on relationality of places) depending on their importance to the repro­ duction of human life. Namely, Manchineri villages can become marginal when viewed as lacking the power, productivity and knowledge of the urban areas. Urban areas crucially contribute to the well-being of many indigenous groups as a source of materials and power. For Amerindians, the Other is a fundamental part of ‘us’, as discussed in terms of the dynamism in indigenous Amazonian cosmology. When some centres of encounter carry more political, economic, historical or spiritual importance than others, they give people more vitality. As a result of their bodies’ connections to multiple agencies in one place or elsewhere, these places become centres in the meshwork of movement. As Massey (2005: 130) suggests, ‘Places not as points or areas on maps, but as integrations of space and time; as spatiotemporal events’. Apart from the continuous movement and relationality of places, as emphasized by Tim Ingold and Doreen Massey, certain centres remain essential for the Manchineri. They act as the centre(s) of returns and offer stillness between dynamic circulations. The ongoing centrality of the ancestral land and kin is engendered through the social and cultural differences in relation to other beings and their places, forging new relationships with others. Kin, ancestral land and its beings move along with people in bodies and memories, directing Manchineris’ thoughts when they are away from their kin. Relationships with other places redefine and reproduce their sense of personhood, giving rise to ‘capable’ bodies through ways of speaking, relating and behaving with different beings (see Virtanen 2012). A Manchineri wayfarer is thus a knowledge-maker (cf. Ingold 2000), but individuals’ movements are interpreted in relation to the centres of the kin and returns to them: otherwise the wayfarer may lose her or his Manchineriness. If one’s movement does not have an objective

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or the idea of return to the collectivity of the kin, the centre, one becomes a dangerous being, non-kin. A village is a central place in the Amazonian cosmos, but my point extends further: a village exists only in a larger meshwork, in relation to other places and their beings. Amazonian indigenous place-making is not fixed, because places are (re)made; this is similar to the Amazonian way of producing persons and bodies in relation to others. Brazilian indigenous demarcated territories are clearly bounded places in the state cartography. In contrast, for its indigenous residents, the reserve is linked to various places outside their forest settlements (through security of lands, education and health improvements coordinated from urban areas), making the paths linking forest and urban environments vital in their movement and bodily practices as well as in the cognitive maps of people, as discussed in relation to the sketch maps. Amazonian indigenous history, present and senses of belonging are also lived outside the areas that have traditionally been considered as the territories of certain indigenous groups. The Manchineri aim to continue to move and be mobile, as they have been while hunting, practicing swidden agriculture and searching for forest resources. These pathways guarantee their ability to live with the people they want to relate to, and to acquire necessary material and immaterial resources for their lives. Pirjo Kristiina Virtanen is a researcher in the Department of World Cultures at the University of Helsinki. She received her Ph.D. in Latin American studies, and her research projects have dealt with indigenous politics, indigenous leaderships, adolescence, shamanism, ethno-history, as well as indigenous socio-philosophies. She has worked especially with two Arawakan-speaking peoples: the Apurinã and Manchineri in Amazonian forest and urban areas. She is the author of Indigenous Youth in Brazilian Amazonia: Changing Lived Worlds (Palgrave Macmillan) and a series of peer-reviewed articles published in journals such as Journal of Latin American, Caribbean Anthropology, Tipití, Identities and others.

Notes   1. The demographic numbers are from the IBGE census 2010.   2. The Manchineri practice swidden agriculture.

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  3. Similarly the Apurinã, another Arawakan-speaking people who I have been working with, use the word ‘kimapury’ for all the different types of paths and roads.   4. A very similar thing occurs among the Apurinã, with whom I have also worked.   5. In Brazil quota systems for indigenous students have been created. In the Acre state, the federal university has offered a special degree for indigenous people (Curso de docência indígena).  6. See also Ulturgasheva (2012) for the idea of return when the Eveny youths leave for their studies in cities.

References Albert, B. and A. Ramos (eds). 2000. Pacificando o branco. Cosmologias do contato no norte-Amazônico. São Paulo: Editora UNESP. Alexiades, M.N. 2009. ‘Mobility and Migration in Indigenous Amazonia: Contemporary Ethnoecological Perspectives – an Introduction’, in M.N. Alexiades (ed.), Mobility and Migration in Indigenous Amazonia. Contemporary Ethnoecological Perspectives. London: Berghahn, pp. 1–47. Alexiades, M.N. and D.M. Peluso. 2015. Introduction: Indigenous Urbanization in Lowland South America, Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Anthropology 20(1): 1–12. Andrello, G. 2006. Cidade do índio. São Paulo: Edunesp/ISA/NuTI. Appadurai, A. 1996. Modernity at Large. Cultural Dimensions of Globalization. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Ballinger, P. 2012. ‘Borders and the Rhythms of Displacement, Emplacement, and Mobility’, in T.M. Wilson and H. Donnan (eds), A Companion to Border Studies. London: Wiley-Blackwell, pp. 389–404. Casey, E.S. 1987. Remembering. A Phenomenological Study. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Castro, E. 2009. Cidades na Floresta. São Paulo: Annablume. Chaves, M. 2010. ‘Normative Views, Strategic Views. The Geopolitical Maps in the Ethnic Territorialities of Putumayo’, in F. Hutchins and P.C. Wilson (eds), Editing Eden. A Reconsideration of Identity, Politics, and Place in Amazonia. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press, pp. 191–217. Conklin, B.A. and L.M. Morgan. 1996. ‘Babies, Bodies, and the Production of Personhood in North America and a Native Amazonian Society’, Ethnos 24(4): 657–94. Descola, P. 2005. Par-delà nature et culture. Paris: Gallimard. Erickson, C.L. 2009. ‘Agency, Causeways, Canals, and the Landscapes of Everyday Life in the Bolivian Amazon’, in J.E. Snead and C.L. Erickson,

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Landscapes of Movements. Trails, Paths, and Roads in Anthropological Perspective. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, pp. 204–31. Fabian, S.M. 1992. Space-Time of the Bororo of Brazil. Gainesville: University Press of Florida. Feld, S. and K.H. Basso. 1996. Senses of Place. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press. Gilroy, P. 1996. The Black Atlantic. London: Verso. Gow, P. 1991. Of Mixed Blood. Kinship and History in Peruvian Amazonia. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Green, S.F. 2005. Notes from the Balkans. Locating Marginality and Ambiguity on the Greek-Albanian Border. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. ———. 2012. ‘A Sense of Border’, in T.M. Wilson and H. Donnan, A Companion to Border Studies. Malden and Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, pp. 573–89. Hornborg, A. and J.D. Hill (eds). 2011. Ethnicity in Ancient Amazonia. Reconstructing Past Identities from Archaeology, Linguistics, and Ethnohistory. Boulder: University Press of Colorado. Hugh-Jones, C. 1979. From the Milk River. Spatial and Temporal Processes in Northwest Amazonia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hugh-Jones, S. 1995. ‘Inside-Out and Back-to-Front. The Androgynous House in Northwest Amazonia’, in J. Carsten and S. Hugh-Jones (eds), About the House. Lévi-Strauss and Beyond. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 226–52. IBGE (the Brazilian Institute of Statistics and Geography). 2010. Censo 2010. Retrieved 1 March 2012 from Ingold, T. 2000. The Perception of the Environment. Articles in Livelihood, Dwelling, and Skill. London and New York: Routledge. ———. 2009. ‘Against Space. Place, Movement, Knowledge,’ in P.W. Kirby (ed.), Boundless Worlds. An Anthropological Approach to Movement. New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, pp. 29–44. ———. 2011. Being Alive. Articles on Movement, Knowledge and Description. London and New York: Routledge. Lefebvre, H. 2004. Rhythmanalysis. Space, Time and Everyday Life. London and New York: Continuum. Keller, A.H. 2009. ‘A Road by Any Other Name: Trails, Paths, and Roads in Maya Language and Thought’, in J.E. Snead and C.L. Erickson, Landscapes of Movements. Trails, Paths, and Roads in Anthropological Perspective. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, pp. 204–31. Kirby, P.W. 2009. ‘Lost in “Space”: An Anthropological Approach to Movement’, in P.W. Kirby (ed.), Boundless Worlds. An Anthropological Approach to Movement. New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, pp. 1–27. Massey, D. 2005. For Space. London: Sage.

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McCallum, C. 1996. ‘Morte e Pessoa entre os Kaxinawá’, Mana. Estudos de Antropologia Social 2(2): 49–84. McSweeney, K. and B. Jokisch. 2007. ‘Beyond Rainforests: Urbanisation and Emigration among Lowland Indigenous Societies in Latin America’, Bulletin of Latin American Research 26(2): 159–80. Ong, A. 1999. Flexible Citizenship. The Cultural Logics of Transnationality. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Peluso, D.M. and M.N. Alexiades. 2005. ‘Indigenous Urbanization and Amazonia’s Post-Traditional Environmental Economy’, Traditional Settlements and Dwelling Review 16(11): 7–16. Santos-Granero, F. (ed.). 2009. The Occult Life of Things. Native Amazonian Theories of Materiality and Personhood. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Stolze Lima, T. 1999 [1996]. ‘The Two and Its Many. Reflections on Perspectivism in a Tupi Cosmology’, Ethnos 64(1): 107–31. Turner, T. 1979. ‘Kinship, Household, and Community Structure among the Kayapó’, in D. Maybury-Léwis (ed.), Dialectical Societies. The Gê and Bororo of Central Brazil. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, pp. 179–217. ———. 1991. ‘Representing, Resisting, Rethinking. Historical Formations of Kayapó Culture and Anthropological Consciousness’, in G.W. Stocking Jr. (ed.), Colonial Situations. Articles on the Contextualization of Ethnographic Knowledge. Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, pp. 285–313. ———. 1995. ‘Social Body and Embodied Subject. Bodiliness, Subjectivity, and Sociality among the Kayapo’, Cultural Anthropology 10(2): 143–70. ———. 2011. ‘The Body beyond the Body. Social, Material and Spiritual Dimensions of Bodiliness’, in F.E. Mascia-Lees (ed.), A Companion to the Anthropology of the Body and Embodiment. London: Blackwell. Ulturgasheva, O. 2012. Narrating the Future in Siberia. Childhood, Adolescence, and Autobiography among the Eveny. New York: Berghahn. Vilaça, A. 2005. ‘Chronically Unstable Bodies. Reflections on Amazonian Corporealities’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 11(3): 445–64. ———. 2007 [1999]. ‘Cultural Change as Body Metamorphosis’, in C. Fausto and M. Heckenberger (eds), Time and Memory in Indigenous Amazonia. Anthropological Perspectives. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, pp. 169–93. Virtanen, P.K. 2009. ‘New Interethnic Relations and Native Perceptions of Human to Human Relation in Brazilian Amazonia’, Journal of Latin American and Caribbean Anthropology 14(2): 332–54. ———. 2010. ‘Amazonian Native Youths and Notions of Indigeneity in Urban Areas’, Identities, Global Studies in Culture and Power 17(2/3): 154–75.

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———. 2011. ‘Constancy in Continuity. Native Oral History, Iconography and the Earthworks of the Upper Purus’, in A. Hornborg and J.D. Hill (eds), Ethnicity in Ancient Amazonia. Reconstructing Past Identities from Archaeology, Linguistics, and Ethnohistory. Boulder: University Press of Colorado, pp. 279–98. ———. 2012. Indigenous Youth in Brazilian Amazonia. Changing Lived Worlds. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. ———. 2015. Fatal Substances: Apurinã’s Dangers, Movement, and Kinship, Indiana 32: 85–103. Viveiros de Castro, E. 1996. ‘Os Prononomes cosmológicos e o perspectivismo Ameríndio’, Mana. Estudos de Antropologia Social 2(2): 115–44.

7 Displaced in the Native City Mobilities and Locality in Post-war Sarajevo Zaira Tiziana Lofranco

Introduction This chapter explores the relationship between experiences of (im)mobility and production of locality for displaced Sarajevans (hereinafter sarajlije), who now live in the neighbourhoods of Grbavica (Sarajevo) and Lukavica (East Sarajevo). These neighbourhoods have been strongly impacted by the geographical and political restructuring following the 1992–95 war and the implementation of ethno-national political ‘discourse’.1 The latter tries to constrain personal existence in a spatial dimension where, as Arjun Appadurai (2003: 337) affirms for the nation state, territory, ethnos and governing powers are seen as isomorphic. The 1995 Dayton Peace Agreement split the two neighbourhoods by the Inter-Entity Boundary line (IEBL) that divided the state territory and its capital city into two territorial and administrative macro units, defined on an ethnic basis, and called Entities: CroatMuslim Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina (Federacija Bosne i Hercegovine, FBiH) and Serbian Republic (Republika Srpska, RS). My aim is to address the processual and relational dynamics of ‘moving places’ with respect to the post-war situation in Sarajevo, focusing on a context marked by conflicting politics of space that resulted in territorial instability, shifting locations, forced (im) mobility and, ultimately, in the paradoxical condition of sarajlije being

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culturally displaced in their own native city. Recent anthropological analyses of displacement (Malkki 1996; Cunningham and Heyman 2004; Lubkemann 2008; Ballinger 2012) afford less importance to the spatial dimension of movement and question its forced characterization. Instead, scholars support empirically-informed exploration of displacement and emplacement patterns that, as noted by Pamela Ballinger, should be considered as being ‘simultaneously spatial and temporal processes’ (Ballinger 2012: 390). This approach stems from Liisa Malkki’s work, which highlights how de-historicization of the displacement experience can transform movement in space into the principal element of a standardized heterodefinition of the displaced, while their individual strategies and identification with the place, which have most probably changed during the movement, are ignored (Malkki 1996: 387). More recently, Stephan Lubkemann suggested that migration (i.e., movement in space) should not be considered a prerequisite for displacement unless proven empirically. In the Machazian case, studied by Lubkemann (2008), displacement resulted from ‘forced immobility’, that is to say from the disruption of people’s normal mobility between Mozambique and Zimbabwe in the pre-war times (Lubkemann 2008: 467). On this premise, he reformulates the displacement concept as a ‘disruption of key life projects’ (especially those involving the navigation of expected social life course), resulting not only, and not necessarily, from spatial mobility but from the transformation of those practices in a historical perspective (2008: 468). Lubkemann’s approach to displacement converges in ‘the conflation of movement with mobility in place’ underlined by border studies (Ballinger 2012; Cunningham and Heyman 2004). Moreover, his reference to ‘forced immobility’ sets displacement in the empirical exploration of the ‘enclosure-mobilities continuum’ theorized by Cunningham and Heyman. It aims to grasp the cultural effects of movement in relation to sites, such as borders, where it is structured by unequal power relations (Cunningham and Heyman 2004: 293). From this perspective, the culturally disruptive power of displacement is not linked directly to movement but to an interruption in the life course. As Ballinger confirms, ‘displacement and emplacement alike may break old rhythms and inaugurate new ones as individuals inhabit diverse landscapes, economic systems, technological regimes, and so on’ (Ballinger 2012: 399). As stated in the introduction to this volume, framing the movement of people within the ‘mobility-enclosure continuum’ is of great importance for understanding social processes and an individual

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definition of what is place and movement through, around and across place. Place-making and movement patterns could be analysed outside the traditional theoretical framework of forced migrations, which tends to define displacement as a condition of external domination in which people are ‘subject to brute force’ and are deprived of the option to decide on their own (see Colson 2004: 118). On the contrary, according to Ballinger, it is within the condition of ‘dis-emplacement’, resulting from both movement and enclosure, that individuals ‘negotiate a sense of home in the legal, physical, and affective senses’, expressing their agency in this way (Ballinger 2012: 392). Locality, also called local or inhabitant knowledge, then is neither automatically produced by a person’s change in geographical position nor by a territorial and symbolic reorganization of space around them. As such, locality cannot be described as a top-down cultural dynamic. Scholars have rather regarded it as a ‘property of social life’ or the result of the individual physical engagement with place across time (Appadurai 1996; Lovell 1998; Ingold 2009; Kirby 2009). In this perspective, production of locality becomes central to our exploration of displacement-emplacement and mobility patterns in a circumscribed (ethno-)nationalized space such as post-war Sarajevo. As Nadia Lovell explained: ‘belonging and locality often come to transcend both local and national boundaries in order to encompass identity as it is temporally mobilized and crystallized at particular moments in history’ (1998: 6). In a globalized society, locality is shaped by the unpredictable, but not state controlled, result of interaction (or implosion, according to Appadurai) between local reality and transnational ‘flows’ of ideas, information, goods, and most importantly, people (Appadurai 1996; Gupta and Ferguson 1992). The chapter will look at different and nuanced patterns of mobility conveyed by displacement experience defined by the ‘movementenclosure continuum’. It will explore the potentially unpredictable connections that sarajlije daily mobilities express and establish among places in their native city shaped by ethno-national rationalization. The ‘movement-enclosure continuum’ perspective adopted in this chapter will question the sarajlije identification with some portions of the urban territory solely inspired by ethnic attachment and war experience. It will document this process as a more complex and multifaceted dynamic in which multiple identities emerge. On the following pages, I refer to ethnographic data gathered during 2006–07 fieldwork to document the implementation of the politics of place in the urban context and to explore daily interactions between displaced sarajlije and the Sarajevo city space in post-war times.

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Spatial Repositioning in/of Sarajevo In the past, the Sarajevo urban context has been the setting of several military battles caused by the changing balance of power in the Balkan region and worldwide. Clashes between the Ottoman and AustroHungarian empires, two world wars and fifty years of socialist government did not challenge the territorial integrity of the Bosnian capital city. Futhermore, for different strategic and ideological reasons, the shifting empires and regimes had always preseved the multiethnicity of the city (cf. Skarić 1937; Kurto 1997; Donia 2006). The last war reversed this tendency by supporting an urban secession along ethnic lines that had been realized through several shifts in territorial restructuring from April 1992, when the Serbian Democratic Party, SDS (Srpska Demokratska Stranka), representatives withdrew from parliament and refused to acknowledge the independence of the newly-proclaimed Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina from the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia (SFRJ). Barricades mushroomed in the urban fabric and very quickly formed the front line. Its positioning, considered a prelude for a definitive division of the city, was the object of military and diplomatic dispute which, as argued elsewhere (Lofranco 2011), became visible in the different and shifting topographic representations of Sarajevo’s territory drawn by local and foreign subjects. However, neither local nor foreign cartography questioned the ethnic homogeneity of the divided urban zones that were usually represented with monochromatic areas. Similarly, drafted maps did not show that an ethnicity-based distribution of people on urban territory was not the status quo but a result that was to be pursued by ethnic cleansing. The latter constituted an essentializing and disciplinary process aimed not only at forcing mass movement towards ethnically-homogeneous spaces, but also to instil in daily sarajlije practice a habitus of movement within a mononational space presented and perceived as safer. Warfare in the Sarajevo urban context was marked by mortar shelling, snipers victimizing civilians randomly in public places and from a top-down perspective, and notably door-to-door dynamics. The latter was perpetrated by paramilitary groups violating the private dimension of the domestic and the body space. With these peculiar strategies, the use of violence tried to conform movements to ethnically-bounded urban places institutionalized by the 1995 Dayton Agreement, demilitarizing the front line and transforming it into an IEBL, which aimed for an

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administrative split along the ethnic line of the state territory and its capital city. This territorial remapping shifted the locations in the urban space of the two Sarajevo neighbourhoods under consideration. Before the war broke out, both were located within the boundaries of Sarajevo, and Lukavica was a peri-urban neighbourhood. Although a hill separated Grbavica from Lukavica visually, they were neighbouring settlements, part of the same municipality (Novo Sarajevo). Both were predominantly Serbian, due to the presence of the Yugoslav National Army (JNA – Jugoslovenska Narodna Armija) barracks and facilities. When the war started in 1992, both neighbourhoods fell under Serbian military control. In 1996, immediately after the Dayton Peace Agreement, Grbavica was reintegrated into Sarajevo territory, while Lukavica was allocated to the newly established city of Serbian Sarajevo. Shifts in military and administrative boundaries resulted in demographic changes in both neighbourhoods, due to the selective movement pattern inaugurated by ethnic cleansing, which forced people to move into the areas controlled by the national group into which they had been categorized. As a consequence, Grbavica become the first safe haven for many Serbian sarajlije leaving parts of the city controlled by the Army of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina. At the same time, it was the place of departure for inhabitants of other nationalities, especially for Muslims.2 After the Dayton Agreement had assigned Grbavica to ‘federal’ Sarajevo, the neighbourhood’s Bošnjak population grew, while Lukavica became the destination for Serbs fleeing Grbavica and even today is almost entirely inhabited by Serbs.3 Along with the demographic change, national territorial division between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo was symbolically asserted by the political and military powers. This included changes in street names, construction of places of worship, and new or resignified urban rituals. Furthermore, it was a process of political legitimization of the newly founded ethnocentres (Pale and after Banja Luka for Serbs of East Sarajevo and Federal Sarajevo for the Muslims), whose neighbourhoods, especially those located on the edges of controlled territories, should be included in the new ethno-national, spatiotemporal order through a centripetal dynamic. No ubiquitous placement was accepted and people were forced to decide which side of the line they wanted to be on and thus declare a clear-cut affiliation. In order to preserve ethnic homogeneity and ‘safety’, people, as well as vehicles and other objects, had to be

Source: The original map by the Faculty of Architecture (Sarajevo University) has been translated and adapted by the author

Map 7.1  Sarajevo. Changes in the urban perimeter

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categorized immediately as part of an ethnicized urban territory. This, of course, became an obstacle to free, safe circulation, and in many cases prevented movement. (Im)mobility and dynamics of separation cannot be considered the automatic effect of ethnic hatred. They are the outcome of a deliberately-pursued political strategy for the ‘substantiation’ of (ethno-)national identity (Alonso 1994: 384), in which space and time become central. It is important to note that in scenarios marked by shifting borders, like BiH, the territorial dimension of the ethnonationalist and sociocultural dynamics was enhanced to the detriment of the temporal aspect. Nonetheless, even during the conflict, the extension of time needed to communicate from one side of the front line to the other conveyed a perception of a long spatial distance that had no confirmation in quantitative space-time measurements. Grbavica and Lukavica offer a good example of these dynamics. From 1992 to 1996, when both neighbours were placed under BosnianSerb army control, it was almost impossible to reach either of them from the rest of the neighbourhoods controlled by the government army, in which the majority of the population was Muslim. The situation in Grbavica was emblematic because only one bridge, where the front line was established, separated this neighbourhood from the rest of the city. Notwithstanding the spatial closeness, it took a long time for people in Grbavica to receive correspondence sent from the other side of the line, since the mail was sorted in the main ethno-nationalist Serb ethno-political centres like Pale or Belgrade. ‘Grbavica “there, far away”’ (Grbavica tamo daleko) was the title of an article, published in the Sarajevan magazine Dani in 1993, which described this neighbourhood situated just on the other side of the barricade (Hafner 1993). In post-war times, the positioning of the IEBL decided by the Dayton Agreement reintegrated Grbavica into the territory previously controlled by the government army, while it intervened to divide it from Lukavica. Compared to other Bosnian and Herzegovinian divided cites like Mostar, whose administrative division set after the conflict has not considered permanent, in Sarajevo, the establishement of the IEBL definitively split the pre-war city into two towns belonging to two different Entities. For this reason, even after the conflict had ended and the front line had become an invisible administrative boundary dividing the two neighbourhoods, the Entities used their legislative powers to convert wartime resettlements into permanent changes of residence. The scarcity of public transport connecting the two sides, together with the peculiar morphology of the Sarajevo territory

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marked by the presence of high hills surrounding the urban centre, amplified the perception of a space-time disconnection between the two neighbourhoods and discouraged mobility. Following these politics in the post-war period, the IEBL tried to function as a barrier to reorientate (or prevent) movement, both permanent and daily traffic, in accordance with the ethnoautarchic logic underpinning the new ethno-national rationalization of Sarajevo. Unlike Mostar, in Sarajevo the shifting of the front line and administrative divisions between neighbourhoods had forced people to undergo multiple dislocations and develop a complex sense of belonging to places. Furthermore, mobility and immobility patterns in Sarajevo should be analysed keeping in mind the asymmetrical division of the urban patrimony between the two sides of the IEBL. Differently from Mostar, where the historical heritage of the old town is located in the eastern side (Bosniak majority) and the new shopping centres are concentrated in the western side (Croat majority), in Sarajevo places of interests (past and present) have been included in the side assigned to the Federation of BiH, where Bosniak are the majority.

Displacement, Urban Symbols and Disorientation In Sarajevo, as in many other Southeastern European cities, the collapse of the socialist government was followed by a project in which this political change was made apparent in toponymy and street names (Rihtman-Auguštin 2000; Robinson, Engelstoft and Pobric 2001; Cosmeanu 2009; Palmberger 2013). With the urban division between Sarajevo and East Sarajevo in 1993, these changes in street names were monopolized by ethno-nationalist forces and used to enhance the Serbian identity of Lukavica and the Bosniak identity of Grbavica, in order to give each place its ethno-national principle as its distinguishing trait and thus to orientate the Sarajevan emplacement process. Top-down driven dynamics of place-making through symbolic reconfiguration were aimed at conveying perceptions of Sarajevan social exclusion from that part of the native city governed by different ethnic groups. Changing street names also tended to foster disorientation, hindering people’s daily movements in particular places. Nevertheless, locality produced by symbolic reconfiguration of the native city is analysed here as part of the human experience of movement in space and time that, as suggested in the introduction to this volume, is able to shape new conceptualizations of places and relations between them.

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In Lukavica, where the context was not of return but a new settlement, wider support for new names was registered among the population, but, as I will show, this cannot be simply interpreted as support for the ethno-national cause. Very often the choice of Serbian names was praised as these had been ‘moved’ from Sarajevo. Radovan (a middle aged informant in Lukavica), for example, affirmed: ‘we had those streets in Federal Sarajevo and now we’ve moved them here and they are our new streets. They were used downtown when we were all living together’. Statements of this kind prove the dynamic of urban secession and highlight the explicit association that informants made between the move (or removal) of Serbian street names from Sarajevo with the move (removal) of Serbian inhabitants themselves. In his research into the suburb of Pale, Ioannis Armakolas (2007: 89) highlights that Serbian sarajlije who had moved from their native city expressed a ‘displaced sense of place’ that encompasses the feeling of both belonging and exclusion from Sarajevo urban reality. Lukavica inhabitants often justified the dislocation of old Serbian names by their need to defend their ‘Serbianness’ as part of urban identity when faced with radical change in the Sarajevo place identified by its ‘Islamization’. On the other hand, the preservation of the city’s old street names was also justified by the need to domesticate unfamiliar and non-urbanized places such as Lukavica. When I asked my informants in Lukavica what they thought about the street names, some did not question their national characterization, as it was a practical answer to the need for new designations (prvobitni nazivi) for their new and semi-rural settlement of Lukavica. Colombijn and Erdentung (2002: 4) consider the importance of establishing a relationship between urban morphology and urban social structure, and of highlighting the different power base between ethnic groups that exert different impacts on the production of urban space (Colombijn and Erdentung 2002: 9). In this respect, the displaced inhabitants of Lukavica remained segregated behind the hills that surround the city, constituting the outskirts of pre-war Sarajevo. The establishment of the IEBL excluded, even visually, Serbian sarajlije displaced in Lukavica from the urban centre. Therefore the new location had none of the distinguishing urbanized lifestyle characteristics that informants were used to. The use of old urban street names and toponyms with a Serbian national identity was thus accepted because they expressed symbolic continuity rather than a rift with the urban space of the erstwhile united Sarajevo, bringing something familiar into an unfamiliar space.4 For this reason, some of my interlocutors welcomed the presence in their new settlement of the streets ‘Nikola

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Tesla’ and ‘Vuk Karadžić’ that were located in the Sarajevo old town before the war but which had been replaced respectively by the streets ‘Petrakijina’ and ‘Pehlivanuša’ during the conflict. In any case, ethno-nationalization of street naming in the neighbourhood had a disorientating effect on my informants. Even when one street name, brought from Sarajevo, was familiar and well accepted, inhabitants in Lukavica appeared uncertain about its location in the new place of residence. In one case, when I asked a woman in Lukavica to indicate the location of the street called ‘Vojvoda Radmira Putnika’, whose name had been brought from ‘old’ Sarajevo, the woman sent me downtown to ‘federal’ Sarajevo. In this and in several other cases, it became clear that disorientation and obstacles to movement manifest themselves even within the bounded and ethnicized place of residence with which people should be identifying. Furthermore, ethnographic exploration of the daily experience of movement in a politically and symbolically-redefined territory shows clearly that disorientation in the Sarajevo urban centre identified with the native city space emerges as a transethnic feature shared by sarajlije living on both sides of the IEBL. Ilija from Lukavica explained: ‘Believe me, I was an electrician and I worked in Sarajevo for thirty years, so I knew every street name and number by heart. Now I know absolutely nothing’. Similarly in Sarajevo, ethno-nationalization of street names also brought a disorientating effect for the sarajlije, regardless of their nationality. In Grbavica all the interviewees faced practical problems in locating buildings, houses, shops and offices.5 Katica told me: ‘Regarding the new names, I don’t think they should have changed them. I can hardly catch those new names. I know the old names. I was born here and I learned them that way.’6 The cultural and identity transformations that institutions set out to achieve through the changing of old street names and adoption of new national designations have had the unpredictable result of amplifying the disruptive effects of displacement by changing the space-time coordinates in which an individual’s local knowledge is anchored. This becomes visible also in the attempt to archaicize local national identity, which has led institutions to reinstate figures from the presocialist period. But this ended in a disavowal from interlocutors, who simply do not know them because they are too far from both their biographical experience and memory of urban history. In Lukavica, for example, Branko, a middle-aged man, affirmed he was against the post-war political decision to erase all the street names commemorating people who had ruling positions after the Second

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World War. Similarly in Grbavica, Lejla, a middle-aged Muslim woman told me: ‘My street was named after a Serbian partisan and now it is named after some Muslim and I do not know why that Muslim is good. I have never heard his name before!’ This opinion was shared by many other residents of a similar age living on the same street. However, significant differences can often be found among people of different generations. Lejla’s son Esad (aged 23), who lived with her, also admitted a complete ignorance of the identity and merits of the person after whom that street was named. He said: ‘In the aftermath of the war my street was renamed after a member of the association Mladi Muslimani7 and I don’t know who he is exactly and what he did in order to deserve a street being named after him’. Nonetheless, the name of the historical figure that is unknown to Esad and his mother is familiar to Lejla’s mother (aged 73), who intervened and explained that the man was not a member of the association Mladi Muslimani but a fighter against the AustroHungarian occupation in 1915. Before the war, she added, a very short street was named after him in Sarajevo in a mahala,8 where she had lived during her childhood, primarily inhabited by Muslims. All of these examples demonstrate how redefinitions of place are imbued with an ethno-nationalizing effort, and rely on events and figures from a remote national past which are in no way linked to the socialist experience that shaped the local knowledge of many middleaged informants, nor do they convey the identification of the new generations who were born after the end of socialism. The difficulty in identification is caused by names that are not only too distant from but also too close to the biographical experience of my informants. Any explicit reference to people and events recalling the last conflict is considered an obstacle, especially if the names of streets or squares recall controversial memories of the last war. This is the case of denominations recalling the military and paramilitary groups fighting on the Bosnian side like ‘Green Berets’ street (ulica Zelenih Beretki) and on the Bosniak-Serb side like ‘Brigades of Ilidža’ square (trg Ilidžanske brigade), or ‘Sarajevo Brigades’ street (ulica Sarajevske brigade). The use of such names becomes an impediment not only to identification but also to circulation in areas outside residence and is very often a reason for shame, as explained by Sonja (a Serbian inhabitant of Lukavica): ‘People can find themselves in embarrassing situations when they go downtown (Sarajevo) and someone asks for the street where they live … basically, some addresses are a little extreme’. The informants suggest that the practical need for moving and orientating in post-conflict and displacement conditions creates a

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demand for a more neutral or apolitical public space. Depoliticization of urban space is necessary for facing the effects of rapid and radical changes that have disrupted the daily use of places. Suada (a Muslim inhabitant of Grbavica) commented: ‘If they want to change the street names every five years, it would be better not to name the streets after people. It would be better to choose different designations: Chestnut Street, Linden Street, Long Street or Short Street. When you name a street after a person and it turns out they are bad, the name of the street will change.’ In Lukavica, Darko (a Serbian) told me: ‘I would name the streets by numbers, like in Germany or America. I mean block numbers … I wouldn’t have named our streets after our Serbian heroes, but with numbers and blocks.’ Disorientation thus appears to be a marking feature of a locality produced by sarajlije living on both sides of the IEBL as a consequence of the common experience of displacement in space and time. Indeed, disorientation is not merely the consequence of a massive change and dislocation of street names. It is rather produced by cultural displacement with respect to the ‘old’ Sarajevo, where local knowledge had been forged through an entire lifetime, and connections and positions developed in relation to it. The new symbolic reconfiguration and imposed space-time disconnections among people and places brought by the ethnicized logic of street renaming is not consistent with the complex, localized space-time interaction between people and places that lies at the core of the sociocultural dynamic of the production of locality (Appadurai 1996: 191). Within the context of the production of locality, Lovell explains: ‘The landscape itself becomes historicized. Rather than providing fixed features for the classification of human experience, nature becomes a part of dynamic processes which allow for movement through the very remembrance of settlement and belonging’ (Lovell 1998: 11). As my informants’ comments seem to suggest, disorientation obstructs emplacement strategies that are the final stage of attempts to re-acquire freedom of movement after forced wartime (im)mobility at the margins or in the centre of the place that they still identify as their native city.

Commuters Across the Line Now I will consider the effects of the reorganization of political and economic institutions that exercised a more direct influence on the distribution of, and access to, resources available to citizens

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throughout the territory, and try to structure their willingness or refusal to cross the boundary established in the post-war period. Consequently, the discussion shifts from mass movement to investigation of individual movements in an attempt to describe the production of locality after displacement. Violent ethno-nationalist spatial politics had a great influence on citizens’ perceptions of the boundary-crossing experience. My informants often referred to the danger associated with crossboundary mobility during the war, the distance between the two neighbourhoods or even the hilly road, as reasons for not crossing the boundary after the war was over. All of those elements, even those that are more ‘objective’, can be considered a consequence of ethnonational politics that tried to separate the two sides by manipulating and managing geomorphological and infrastructural elements in order to dissolve a sense of a past social proximity, block crossboundary mobility and enforce conformation to an ethnoautarchic logic. The duplication of administrative institutions in the two towns and neighbourhoods represented the implementation of this logic, attempting, as I mentioned earlier, to force people to go about their daily business on the side governed by the ethno-national group with which they were identified. Ethnographic data suggest that the life domains in which this strategy had major effects with respect to human movement were those previously regulated by the socialist welfare state. The ethnonationalist forces that took over the role of the socialist government were able to use their legislative power to territorialize socio-economic rights, namely to acknowledge those rights only for residents. This mechanism implied the perfect correspondence between the place of residence and the place where rights to healthcare, pensions, education and work are recognized. The discriminatory aim of these measures becomes even more evident if we consider that the place of residence was, and in certain contexts still is, understood as the place where people were registered during displacement and where they frequently belonged to the national majority. These dynamics, neglected by scholars for as long as ethnic cleansing was associated with armed conflict, mean that forced movements in wartime as well as in peace must be considered as the result of a continuum in the deployment of violence, as indicated by Stef Jansen and Staffan Löfving (2007: 8). Attempts to nationalize public services were particularly successful in the post-war healthcare domain, thanks to a health insurance system that guaranteed citizens the right to access cheaper public

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healthcare and low-cost medication only in the territory of the Entity of residence.9 The implementation of these rules was confirmed by my informants who explained that regardless of their degree of satisfaction with the local healthcare system, they could not go to the hospital or buy medication on the other side of the line because insurance would only cover their costs in the Entity where they were registered. Although it was not forbidden to access healthcare services somewhere else by paying full price, very few informants could afford it on a regular basis. Furthermore, pensions were paid out by the Entity where people were displaced, so retired people were forced to withdraw their pension in the place of displacement, even if it was not their place of residence. Spokespersons from the association of retired people in Grbavica reported that this was the reason why some of the registered elderly people who had difficulties with travelling on a regular basis were forced to move back to a place of displacement in RS in order to get their pension. Only with the Agreement on Mutual Rights and Obligations in the Implementation of Pension and Disability Insurance were citizens given the opportunity to receive their pension by post at their place of residence, regardless of the Entity in which it was located.10 The International Community (IC) intervened more effectively with regard to employment and education situations to limit unequal access to services and job opportunities.11 Nonetheless, in those sectors, autarchic logic was supported by informal discriminatory dynamics both in the towns and neighbourhoods; employment, especially, became a key resource for the sustenance of households in the post-war period marked by the collapse of the socialist welfare state and a rise in unemployment. Immediately after the war, the inhabitants of both neighbourhoods experienced psychological and social pressure to live and work in the same place. Those mechanisms were used to discriminate against employees who did not belong to the national majority and to co-opt people who belonged to the national majority but who continued to be resident on the other side of the boundary. This was the case for some Serbs who decided to return to Sarajevo or who simply did not leave during or immediately after the war. In Grbavica, Katica described the situation of her Serbian daughterin-law who could not find a job in Sarajevo immediately after the war; finally, she was hired in Lukavica and forced to move there in order to keep the new job. A number of Serbs living in Grbavica told me that they were no longer afraid of physical violence in Sarajevo after the war. Zora explained: ‘No one touches you, they just don’t give you the possibility to earn money and live’. She complained that her

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son’s Serbian name was a big obstacle to getting a job in Sarajevo. She also explained that the same situation could be found in Lukavica, where Serbs would not recruit people of other nationalities. Surprisingly, during my stay in Lukavica in 2007, I found out that some of the employees of local institutions were Serbs officially resident in ‘federal’ Sarajevo. Generally, they felt obliged to justify their choice with statements like ‘I have a house there, what else can I do?’ and in Grbavica I also heard justifications like ‘I needed a job. What could I do?’ from Serbs who had to explain to their Muslim acquaintances the reasons for accepting a job in Lukavica or in East Sarajevo. The decision to commute, or to choose a multi-site condition, still sounded like an anomaly in a system that according to wartime logic is organized around the manifestation of clear-cut (national) belonging and communicated by spatial choice. Even if the Serbian employees decided to take advantage of the nationalization of some compartments of the labour market, they contradicted the nationalist ethnoautarchic logic of a bounded life with their daily boundary crossing.12 It must be acknowledged that daily commuting across the IEBL for work purposes is not only a result of discrimination: it also represents the choice made by many people living in Lukavica (a Serbian majority in consideration of the national composition of the neighbourhood) who could not find a job in this still small and semi-rural place. The geographical proximity of Lukavica to the Sarajevo urban centre made it feasible for Serbian residents to afford daily mobility rather than move to the capital city of Banja Luka, where the prices of renting or buying an apartment were higher. Nowadays, commuting from Lukavica to Sarajevo city centre inverts the direction of pre-war daily movement, when the former area was not considered residential because it was a suburb where important factories like Famos or Energoinvest were located. Sarajlije commuted to work here daily from neighbourhoods in the city centre where they resided. Analysed from a historical perspective, today’s commuting in the direction of Sarajevo city centre highlights Lukavica’s shifting location. This has been caused both by urban secession and displacement, and also by the extensive deindustrialization process that economically transformed this neighbourhood into a suburb. Furthermore, as Ioannis Armakolas (2007) explains in the context of Serbs in Pale, the Sarajevo urban area provided good job opportunities through the growth of international governmental and non-governmental organizations, and the presence of central state institutions that kept recruiting employees according to the national quota principle.

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Nonetheless, compared to other neighbourhoods located in other East Sarajevo municipalities like Pale, Lukavica also offers the sarajlije displaced in RS a good location for exploiting Sarajevo’s opportunities without losing the benefits connected with ethnicity in terms of safety and acknowledgement of those socio-economic rights assured to people who reside within the Entity in which their ethnic group is the majority. In this sense, the movement patterns assign Lukavica its central position, particularly, but not exclusively, in the Romanija region of RS to the detriment of Pale, the ethno-national administrative centre.13 In a remapped territory where economic opportunity is asymmetrically distributed, daily movement caused by changed, and sometimes inverted, use of places (where to live, work, study, etc.), can regenerate locations in the native city as marginal or central (cf. Virtanen; Kozorog; Janko Spreizer, this volume). Furthermore, several years after the conflict, when the perceived geographical and social distance that was maximized during the conflict no longer prevents the possibility of, or willingness for, crossing the IEBL, different movement patterns and mobile emplacement solutions are available to citizens who want to exercise their socio-economic rights. As ethnographic data suggest, the evaluation of different possibilities can push towards a detachment of the place of residence from the place of work. Namely, through their everyday movements across the IEBL, sarajilije living in Grbavica and Lukavica try to capitalize on the nationalization and internationalization of public services and job opportunities. In some cases, this ability transforms displaced people into commuters. Using the Ballinger analysis of new temporalities inaugurated by migration experience (Ballinger 2012: 399), the reported data highlight how Sarajevan commuting, resulting from the mobility-enclosure continuum, has fostered new rhythms in the daily movement of people around their native city by relocating them in the urban space. Commuting after displacement can thus be described both as the result of disemplacement, in Ballinger’s words, and as part of people’s negotiation of emplacement strategies in post-war times.

Leisure and Shopping: Boundary Crossing in Asymmetrically (Trans-)Nationalized Spaces My informants seemed to challenge the ethnoautarchic principle every day in activities less affected by legislation, such as shopping and leisure. The persistence of old affections and ways of experiencing urban space, which were a clear effect of displacement, may in part

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explain the phenomenon of boundary crossing and the unilateral direction of this movement towards the Sarajevo city centre. Sarajlije now living in Grbavica see no reason to cross into East Sarajevo except on their way to the mountains, just as they used to before the war. After almost fifteen years of intense construction work, the territory of today’s East Sarajevo recalls empty spaces, without amenities for sarajlije living in Grbavica. On the contrary, old affections and habits have kept my informants living in Lukavica going back to Sarajevo for as many of the old shopping and pastime activities as they can afford. From this point of view, locality is deeply rooted in the past: the practice of boundary crossing both in Grbavica and Lukavica seemed to be shaped by habitual pre-war interaction within the urban place. Sonja said: ‘yes, we have one cinema and some shops here, but I prefer to go to the city. We all have links with Sarajevo and I go there’. Closer observation reveals that these pre-war habits were not just reactivated but, for many of my Serbian informants living in Lukavica, the chance to go to the usual shopping or leisure venues in Sarajevo now entails crossing an administrative boundary, which is a movement towards a different city, where they no longer live. The relative location of both neighbourhoods transforms post-war cross-boundary mobility into a counterhegemonic phenomenon, as it contradicts politically-induced movement patterns gravitating around the newly-formed ethnocentres. Moreover, cross-border mobility does not simply reactivate the centre-periphery continuum: it highlights inequalities in the construction of place and the unidirectionality of movement within it. Indeed, for people living in Lukavica, the revival of past habits emphasizes how the asymmetrical division of pre-war economic and cultural urban heritage between the two towns has put them in a penalized condition. This feeling of dispossession was well explained by Branko. I asked him where he went shopping and he answered: ‘I go to Sarajevo, of course. That’s where everything still is.’ Movement towards the city centre expresses a sense of loss of the past living place but it also discloses contemporary place-making process as a product of the local interaction with ‘a system of hierarchically organized spaces’ (Gupta and Ferguson 1992: 8). This involves not only the unequal division of past urban heritage: nowadays the asymmetrical concentration of international and transnational subjects in the two cities (Sarajevo and East Sarajevo) also structures relationality and relativity of places and the dynamic of crossing the boundary that divides them.

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Sarajevo city centre has changed extensively since the pre-war period. The last war was a starting point for a process of nationalization of the urban space, but also fostered its involvement in a complex network of international and transnational dynamics and subjects. Inspired by Appadurai, Sarajevo can be compared to other cities that became ‘translocalities’ and resulted from transnationally-driven civil wars that transformed them into places tied weakly to their national hinterlands (Appadurai 2003: 339). If this involvement of the Bosnian capital in the flow of people, information, technologies and goods is evident in the urban centre of Sarajevo, East Sarajevo appears to be more restricted in a nationalized context. In East Sarajevo, for example, infrastructural problems hinder access to new technologies. Furthermore, cultural events deal with Serbian folklore and literature, and shopping centres are funded by local investors.14 As a result, when asked about places for buying goods, including food, sarajlije living both in Lukavica and in Grbavica explained that they much preferred the new large-scale distribution outlets in Sarajevo, such as supermarkets. Few people buy exclusively in the local market (pijaca) or little shops (granap). Marijan (an inhabitant of Lukavica), for example, told me he felt very lucky to have the opportunity to go to Sarajevo regularly for shopping because there he could find affordable prices and even buy products in Italian shops. The same can be said about leisure activities: concerts by international music stars, movies distributed on international circuits and international exhibitions are all concentrated in Sarajevo territory and are also attended by my young Lukavica informants. It is not my intention to present transboundary shopping and leisure as examples of cultural homogenization brought about by globalization and the capitalist consumption model; rather the core proposition is to analyse these transboundary movements in a historical perspective, whereby they acquire new meanings in the life trajectories of displaced peoples. Unlike in the socialist period, foreign goods are now widely available in the Sarajevo market. The involvement of local life in the flow of foreign goods symbolizes the rapprochement with the oncedistant capitalist world, whose desirable consumption model and fashionable lifestyle were only available before the war by crossing the international and geopolitical borders that separated Yugoslavia from Western European countries (Mikula 2010). The new IEBL and the movements across it and towards Sarajevo city centre could be justified by its potential to replace some aspects

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of the old practice of mobility across an international border. Cross-boundary mobility, as well as movements towards the capital urban area, acquired additional and amplified meanings. The latter are also deeply rooted in the sense of impossibility conveyed by the contemporary condition of cross-border immobility that lasted until the liberalization of the visa regime in the Schengen area in October 2010.15 As Appadurai (1996: 36) says, the interaction with transnationalized space often feeds the imagination and promotes identification with a wider context not confined by national and, even stricter, ethnonational boundaries, and it becomes ‘prolegomena to the desire for acquisition and movement’. The clash between this cultural dynamic of self-identification with a transnational space as consumer of images and goods, and the exclusion from the same space as citizens claiming their rights to free movement, acquires a central role in the Sarajevan production of locality. Many sarajlije also regretted having to live confined in the narrow horizons of local reality and expressed a strong sense of ‘claustrophobia’, in the words of one of my informants, Sladjana, a young Serbian woman displaced in Lukavica, who mentioned several places in the world where she could have gone, had there been no war. This sentiment recalls the sense of ‘entrapment’ observed by Stef Jansen (2009), and/or enclosure. When we consider the effect of this entrapment on the movements in and towards Sarajevo city centre, it is clear that my informants consider this a place where it is possible to feel in touch with the European context while unable to leave their home country. Of course, for Serbs like Sladjana, living in the semi-rural neighbourhood of Lukavica, this possibility entails the daily repetition of cross-boundary mobility as a surrogate for wider, prohibited international mobility. Instead of creating a mere deterritorialized reality, the transnationalization of Sarajevo city centre became the source of a frustrating reterritorialization in a locally-confined reality. Despite this reality being limited by the (ethno-)national dimension, it represents the only option, and some sarajlije react in frustration, declaring they are proud to belong to it. In this sense reterritorialization contributes to shaping a concept of locality as a structure of feeling. In the words of Sladjana: ‘If there hadn’t been a war I would have been able to go and live abroad, but at the end of the day, I like living here. I am not completely satisfied but it is not too bad. I would like to have more possibilities as there are today in Sarajevo, but I also would like Sarajevo to be the way it was before the war.’

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Conclusion The political and social ethno-nationalization of space in the two neighbourhoods divided by the IEBL does not automatically convey identification and movement of sarajlije (even those categorized as members of the ethnic majority) within the portion of urban territory that they inhabit. Their support of the ethno-nationalization of place occurs (or not) as a cultural effect of displacement-emplacement dynamics that generates, in my informants, the need to keep on moving and getting their bearings in their native city space, to which is attached multiple symbolic meanings in this changing context. Locality is the result of daily attempts to give continuity to sarajlije life experience by re-establishing and reinterpreting connections among places and, simultaneously, among past, present and desired future mobilities disrupted by displacement. In this complex process of displacement-emplacement, imagination, nostalgia, desire and frustration also play a role that offsets the abstract and dehumanized topographic top-down reconfiguration of space and movement patterns. As the chapter shows, daily movement in the post-war period expresses sarajlije’s need to reaffirm their local (urban) identity as well as their social identity as citizens and consumers in a world society. When coming to individual movements constrained by local institutional welfare legislation, ethnoautarchic logic is openly challenged by variables like job opportunities in central state institutions or international organizations that foster a separation of the place of residence from the place of work and generate in-between movement patterns, such as commuting. Ethnographic data also highlights the fact that ethnoautarchy is further challenged by the perception of displaced sarajlije (especially if de-urbanized) that the IEBL is a boundary that asymmetrically distributes resources and opportunities based on pre-war urban heritage but also, and primarily, by transnationalization of urban spaces and involvement of BiH in flows of ideas, people and goods. Moreover, outside the logic of circumscribed movement in a pure local ethnic space, cross-boundary mobility in Sarajevo acquires unpredictable new meanings in relation to the cross-border life experience in socialist times and the cross-border immobility in post-war times. As the chapter shows, in Sarajevo, place-making is engendered by the movement-enclosure continuum expressed by the movement patterns of inhabitants in the urban places where locations are continuously shifting. The resulting mobilities, in fact, inagurate new

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rhythms and directions with respect to pre-war movements among native urban sites. It is just in its perimeter that the production of locality is enhanced as a dynamic and relational sociocultural process, as long as sarajlije’s daily im(mobility) turns familiar spaces into unfamiliar, reshuffling centre and margins, and transforming old connections into disconnections to be bridged in new ways. Locality in post-war time is shaped by Sarajevan cross-boundary daily mobilities though which they negotiate emplacement strategies and relocate places of their native city which, in the final analysis, can be seen to ‘move’ in time and space. Zaira T. Lofranco is a Lecturer of social and cultural anthropology at the University of Bergamo, Italy. In 2014 she was involved as a Research Fellow in the EU-funded project ANTICORRP (Anticorruption Policies Revisited). From 2010 to 2013 she was a member of the scientific network Eastbordnet, Remaking Eastern Borders in Europe. She writes on the topic of minorities, spatial anthropology, border dynamics, housing and household economy in post-war Sarajevo.

Notes  1. The toponym East Sarajevo (Istočno Sarajevo) was imposed by the Bosnian Constitutional Court in 2004. This new designation replaced the original name of Srpsko Sarajevo (Serbian Sarajevo) because it was considered discriminatory for non-Serb returnees.  2. Muslimani (Muslim) with a capital letter is the official designation of a nationality included in the Yugoslav Constitution in 1968 to indicate citizens of Islamic religion. When the war started, this designation was replaced by the ethnicized definition of Bošnjak (Bosniak).   3. The first post-war population census in Bosnia and Herzegovina had been carried out in 2013 but its results had not been published yet. Nevertheless, data recorded by the Mjesna zajednica (local community) in Grbavica II reports that in 2005, 67.87 per cent of the neighbourhood population was made up of Bosniaks; 17.75 per cent Serbs (in 1991 they were the majority); 9.22 per cent Croats and 5.16 per cent other nationalities. In the Lukavica Centar, the Mjesna Zajednica secretary asserted that the national composition of the population mirrored that of the whole municipality of Istočno Novo Sarajevo for which official 2006 data reported that 98.5 per cent of the population was made up of Serbs.   4. In the Lukavica district, the naming of streets was still in progress in 2007.  5. In 1995, Borka Bunčić published a guidebook with old street names and their new equivalents to help the inhabitants of Sarajevo orientate

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themselves in their native city. The book’s introduction said: ‘this publication will help you to find old friends easily in a “new” square, old business partners at a new address, old professors at schools with new names’ (Bunčić 1995: 4).  6. All the informants’ statements reported in this chapter have been translated from the local language into English by the author.  7. Mladi Muslimani (Young Muslims) was an organization operating in Bosnia during the Second World War. It supported a return to the Islamic way of life.  8. Mahala is the name for neighbourhoods of Ottoman origin located in the Sarajevo old town.  9. For a report on the BiH healthcare system, see UNHCR report ‘Healthcare in Bosnia and Herzegovina in the Context of Return of Refugees and Displaced Persons’ (UNHCR 2001). See also the Interentity agreement published in the BiH Official Gazette n.30/2001, regulating a few cases, including emergencies, in which it is possible to benefit from healthcare in a different Entity. 10. The Agreement on Mutual Rights and Obligations in the Implementation of Pension and Disability Insurance was published in the Official Gazette RS 15/00 and in the Official Gazette FBiH 24/00. 11. The IC pressure against discriminating labour law led to the approval of labour law in both Entities: Federation Labour Law no. 43/99 and RS Labour Law no. 38/00, 40/00, 47/02, 38/03, 66/03, 20/07. Two ad hoc commissions were constituted to implement, in particular, the new antidiscriminatory articles (art. 152 in RS law and art. 143 in FBiH Law). 12. The same happens very often in higher education. 13. The Region of Sarajevo-Romanija is administratively part of the Republika Srpska. Geographically, it is located north of Sarajevo and in eastern Bosnia and Herzegovina. 14. Later visits to the field in 2012 revealed the presence of a Slovenian hypermarket and a Danish furniture store in East Sarajevo. Nonetheless, there are far fewer foreign shops in this town than in Sarajevo city centre. 15. In summer 2011, the European Commission had already started discussing the temporary suppression of the Schengen visa as a consequence of the huge number of asylum requests sumbitted by BiH citizens. Furthermore, forced immobility of many Bosnian citizens has continued even after 2010 due to the reduced possibility of many Bosnian households to finance travel abroad, increased by the last economic crisis.

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Approach to Movement, New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books, pp. 1–28. Kurto, N. 1997. Sarajevo 1492–1992. Sarajevo: Oko. Lofranco, Z.T. 2011. ‘Sarajevo. Il confine che non c’era. Normalità e pratiche dello spazio urbano dopo il conflitto’, in S. Allovio (ed.), Antropologi in città. Milano, Edizioni Unicopli, pp. 167–206. Lovell, N. 1998. ‘Introduction’, in N. Lovell (ed.), Locality and Belonging. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 1–24. Lubkemann, S.C. 2008. ‘Involuntary Immobility. On A Theoretical Invisibility in Forced Migration Studies’, Journal of Refugee Studies 21(4): 444–75. Malkki, L. 1996. ‘Speechless Emissaries. Refugees, Humanitarianism, and Dehistoricization’, Cultural Anthropology 11(3): 377–404. Mikula, M. 2010. ‘Highways of Desire: Crossborder Shopping in Former Yugoslavia, 1960s–1980s’, in H. Grandits and K. Taylor (eds), Yugoslavia’s Sunny Side. A History of Tourism in Socialism (1950s–1980s). Budapest: Central European University Press, pp. 211–37. Palmberger, M. 2013. ‘Renaming of Public Space. A Policy of Exclusion in Bosnia and Herzegovina’, Kakanien revisited [online], 1–11. Retrieved 28 September 2014 from Rihtman-Auguštin, D. 2000. Ulice moga grada. Beograd: Biblioteka XX Vek. Robinson, G.M., S. Engelstoft and A. Pobric. 2001. ‘Remaking Sarajevo. Bosnian Nationalism after the Dayton Accord’, Political Geography 20(8): 957–80. Skarić, V. 1937. Sarajevo i njegova okolina od najstarih vremena do austrougarske okupacije. Sarajevo: Opština Grada Sarajeva. UNHCR. 2001. ‘Healthcare in Bosnia and Herzegovina in The Context of Return of Refugees and Displaced Persons, July 2001, Sarajevo’. Retrieved 28 September 2014 from

8 From a Tent to a House, from Nomads to Settlers Constructions of Space and Place through Romani Narratives Alenka Janko Spreizer

Introduction This chapter examines the narratives and imaginaries of place and time among Roma in the Krško area in southeastern Slovenia,1 especially from the perspective of what is generally recognized as Romani nomadism and the process of sedentarization in the second half of the twentieth century. The first part of the chapter focuses on positivist discourses of knowledge about the Romani people in Slovenia, called romologija. Since Slovenia’s independence from the Socialist Republic of Yugoslavia in 1991, this term has stood for ‘Romani issues’ or interdisciplinary research on Roma that centres on the ethnic-essentialist approach that in the past set the foundation for the establishment of Romani policies. The first studies on ‘Romani issues’ in Slovenia were carried out as early as 1960. Drawing on eugenic principles, scholars performed medical-genetic (Avčin 1962), physicalanthropological, biological (Pogačnik 1962, Dolinar-Osole 1962) as well as social (Šiftar 1962) and ethnological (Štrukelj 1964) research on Roma. Slovenian romology may be considered a pseudoscience in the Canguilhemian sense: in the majority of cases it has more to do with pseudoscience and projects that tend to justify the existing system of control, power and oppression than with scientific research based

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on sound expertise from different academic fields. Given that many assertions are not recognized as scientific in the academic sphere, I prefer to use the term romological knowledge, which partly retains the name romologija and simultaneously expresses my reservation about this field of knowledge counting as strictly scientific research.2 The chapter describes the political discourses on Roma that were developed on the basis of romological knowledge and illustrates their impact on post-1950 policies and practices regarding Romani settlement. The second part of the chapter delves into a Romani family’s personal memories of their movement and settlement, and explores their attitude towards their supposedly nomadic past as well as their imaginaries of place through home-making. The narratives bring to light their own endeavours to settle, combined with descriptions of pressure from the neighbouring population and local communities, which, until the mid-twentieth century, prevented Roma from settling. Romology then formulated settlement policies aiming at restricting their movements. The two central questions of this chapter are: firstly, how did Roma construct and change the meanings of place at a time when some had already settled and when the legalization of settlements near Krško was already underway? Secondly, how is the meaning of locality, usually constituted through movements, constructed in Romani narratives of belonging to a marginal place (cf. Shields 1991) during the sedentarization process? The ethnographic focus is based on the Romani communities inhabiting the municipality of Krško, situated in southeastern Slovenia, where the Sava Valley expands into the vast plains of Krško polje. The Krško municipality is a hundred kilometres away from the Slovenian capital, Ljubljana, and fifty kilometres away from the Croatian capital, Zagreb. It has a population of 25,886, of whom 352 were Roma with permanent residence and a number were unregistered residents until 2007.3 Present-day Krško is the centre of the Posavje region and a municipal centre. There are several Romani settlements in the Krško area, the largest being the legalized settlement of Kerinov Grm. Both Kerinov Grm and the nearby smaller settlement of Drnovo were included in the formal spatial planning strategy, which will be described later in the chapter. Among the non-Romani population in Slovenia,4 Roma are persistently categorized as Others. Romani communities in Slovenia, and elsewhere in Europe, are extremely diversified in their material status, the urbanization of their more or less spatially segregated settlements and their mobile or immobile lifestyles. In Slovenia and

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elsewhere in Europe, Roma are, regardless of their heterogeneity, often perceived as socially excluded people who pursue a nomadic lifestyle; they are imagined by the majority population as careless, infinitely free, eternally ‘roaming Gypsies’ (cf. Theodosiou 2003) who live a ‘disorderly’ life. Every 8 April, when Roma celebrate the International Romani Day, they usually enter the spotlight, presented as a marginalized group. As peripheral places populated by marginalized Others, Romani settlements take, at least for a short span of time, centre stage in the debate about different relationships between representatives of the state and the periphery or between local authorities, on the one hand, and Romani and non-Romani inhabitants of Romani-settled areas on the other.5 In such discourses, the majority population and state politicians often maintain that the blame for the Romani’s poor situation lies squarely with the Roma themselves because their insistence on freedom keeps them closed off from the world. This is also seen as the reason for their unsuccessful search for their own place and for their consequent social exclusion. The round table on regulation and legalization of Romani settlements that took place on International Romani Day in 2000 in Krško, focused on the local Roma, especially in respect of the ‘problematic’ settlement, spatial planning strategy and search for Romani locations. The moderator described Roma as ‘people who, in their precious life of freedom, of which we understand so little, have not found a place under the sun to call their own’. She expressed her belief that the conflicts between Romani and the non-Romani population started when the former brought their movements and migrations to an end: ‘They followed their own paths, which were many, until they realized one day that even they should stop somewhere, settle down and begin a new life. But, as the years passed, the problems grew worse’. The municipality politicians of Krško mainly focused on problems concerning the legalization of Romani settlements. In so doing, they most often referred to the largest settlement at Kerinov Grm, situated in the middle of agricultural land. They mentioned smaller Romani settlements, such as Drnovo, where part of the land was owned by Roma, and Loke and Rimš, from where the municipality planned to displace and resettle them, less often. Persistently portraying the Roma as newcomers rather than local residents, the speakers at the round table acknowledged the Roma’s presence in the surrounding area and simultaneously denied their locality. They pointed out poor living conditions and the need to provide adequate housing, water, electricity and waste services, as well as access to education and employment. They agreed that

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movement was an obstacle to, and an aberration of, ‘normal life’. In accordance with such sedentary logic, ‘normal life’ was only possible when people become territorialized, settle down and ‘take root’ in one place. The speakers’ comments reflected their belief that attachment to territory and the feeling of belonging to a place could only be developed by sedentarized rather than mobile people. Peter Winkler, Director of the Government Office for National Minorities, stated that ‘[e]xpecting someone to come out from under a tent or a tarp and go to work or attend school regularly and achieve the same results as other pupils who live under different circumstances is, of course, a vast illusion’. This essentially political discourse, based on romological knowledge, marginalizes Roma by defining them as ‘nomads’, thus symbolically displacing them and identifying them as a threat to the sedentary majority of the population. According to the speakers at the aforementioned round table, imagined nomadism legitimated state intervention to sedentarize Roma, portraying it as an obstacle to entering the modern world and ‘normal life’. Therefore, they reiterated the need for the state to provide ‘organized assistance’ in ensuring the provision of permanent abodes with drinking water, electricity and municipal infrastructure to be paid for by the Roma themselves.

On Movement and Marginality The starting point of this discussion is anthropological studies on mobility and movement (Jansen and Löfving 2009; Kirby 2009; Bönisch-Brednich and Trundle 2010) that shed light on conceptual disparities between movement, settlement and the struggle for emplacement (Gregorič Bon 2008; Jansen and Löfving 2009; BönischBrednich and Trundle 2010). Mobility is currently the main marker of globalization that simultaneously encompasses people’s ability, and inability, to move (see Gregorič Bon and Repič, this volume). This chapter demonstrates that ‘emplaced belonging’ (cf. Theodosiou 2003) may also be important for groups that the majority population pejoratively labels as ‘Gypsies’ and to whom they ascribe movement and non-attachment to place. However, I will show that Roma not only express attachment to place when they are emplaced, but also when they move. Imagining Roma as nomads is also reflected in romological knowledge, which reproduces the imaginary of ‘restless nomads’ (Štrukelj 2004), as well as in state and local sedentarization politics

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and practices, which emphasize that Roma should abandon their wandering life and settle in houses. However, in so doing, policymakers pay little consideration to the fact that many Roma in Slovenia were already settled after 1950 and only made occasional travels with horses in search of casual work. The majority population often look on Roma with contempt. Anthropologists who try to explain the lifestyles of different marginal­ ized groups have demonstrated that Roma invert their marginalized social situation by invoking personal autonomy, as well as by forming their own moral universes and a specific orientation in time and place (cf. Day, Papataxiarchis and Stewart 1999). This chapter presents and analyses the narratives of some Romani individuals on their movement and emplacement. In interpreting these narratives, I rely on the notion of marginality, which is an ambiguous, tricky word that evokes a sense of relative location (Green 2005). Drawing on the concepts of place-making and displacement, I explain how Romani identification practices are linked to specific locations and how Roma develop their own understanding of locality and belonging through home-making. Research into romological discourses, Romani narratives and move­ ment practices shows diverse meanings of displacement, settlement and re-emplacement of people and places. Such an approach transcends the dialectics of sedentary and nomadic perspectives that axiomatically define mobility and immobility as two separate, rather than inter­ connected, processes (see also Gregorič Bon and Repič, this volume). Contemporary studies of Roma, Gypsies and Travellers discuss the meanings of flows, mobility, nomadism and space (Kendall 1999; Theodosiou 2003; Levinson and Sparkes 2004; Sigona 2005). They explain how imagined nomadism is used to legitimize segregation and sedentarization policies. They also discuss the meaning of ‘place’ in the construction of Gypsy identification (Theodosiou 2003), and relationship to place within the framework of aggressive legislation and socio-economic pressures, forcing Gypsy Travellers to settle in immobile homes (Levinson and Sparkes 2004; cf. Kendall 1999). Imaginaries and narratives of movement and places indicate that Roma attach meaning of belonging to certain places that are defined as marginal, and that they associate place with multiple meanings of home (cf. Rapport and Dawson 1998a: 9–10; Rapport and Dawson 1998b; cf. Jansen and Löfving 2009). Narratives of Romani settlements as socially marginalized places are complex and controversial, with individuals attributing different values to different places, which they constitute through their social and personal experiences.

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Stereotyping Roma: Restless Nomads The image of Roma as ‘restless nomads’ has long been reproduced by Slovenian romological knowledge and has served as the basis of the state-imposed regime of ‘spatial settlement planning for Roma’ (Janko Spreizer 2011–12) as well as other sedentarization policies and efforts to find a ‘solution to the Romani issue’. Romological knowledge is based on ideas of sedentarism (McVeigh 1999) and, in accordance with the new political regime in Slovenia that fostered similar assimilation efforts to the former socialist Yugoslavia until 1991, it proposed provisions to ensure stable settlements for Roma (Janko Spreizer 2011–12). It also contributed to the construction of the sedentary myth, which ‘treats as normal stability, meaning and place, and treats as abnormal distance, change and placelessness’ (Sheller and Urry 2006: 208). Caught in ‘territorial nationalism and their associated technologies of mapping’ (Sheller and Urry 2006: 209), after 1991, experts in romological knowledge focused on the construction of a Romani autochthonous ethnic (rather than national) community in Slovenia. Romological knowledge imparted a new momentum to the proliferating essentialist descriptions of the distinctive, but disappearing, Romani culture. Romological knowledge was used in the formation of an ethnic minority policy, which was of crucial importance in the process of integration into the European Union. Since 1991, Roma have often been defined as the ‘Romani community’ in Slovenian legislation governing the special rights of Roma.6 Many documents that refer to Roma as an ethnic community classify actions to ‘remedy’ their living conditions and ‘solve’ their housing conditions.7 Romological knowledge pulled Roma into the social ambit of the modern Slovenian state (cf. Štrukelj 2004). Thorough archival research showed that the presence of Roma or Gypsies in Slovenia has been recorded since the fourteenth century. The archives contain documents on the assimilation policies of the AustroHungarian rulers Maria Theresa and Joseph II, which, much like assimilation activities in later periods, used population censuses for the purpose of constructing ‘historical settlements of Gypsies in Slovenia’. Romological knowledge traced the colonization of Roma in three different regions, identified the existence of different Gypsy lineages and described the arrival of Roma in Slovenia from present-day neighbouring countries.8 However, instead of focusing on the reconstruction of their routes and human-scale experience of

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movement, research relied on mapping as a ‘technology of power’ (cf. Kirby 2009: 2). Romani sites were marked as dots on the map and thus geopolitically emplaced in certain locations. Later, researchers used these markings to determine which municipalities were populated by autochthonous Roma, who then obtained their own representation on municipal councils (cf. Janko Spreizer 2004; Šumi and Josipovič 2008; Šumi and Janko Spreizer 2011). Attention was again paid to Romani nomadism and its close associations with autochthony in 2010, when the state revived the process of legalizing Romani settlements (cf. Janko Spreizer 2011–12).9

Romani Settlements and Marginality Pavla Štrukelj (2004), an ethnologist and one of the first researchers to undertake studies of Roma in Slovenia in 1960, lists sources that refer to Roma in the vicinity of Krško, where they lived in wooden huts, tents, buses or shelters cobbled together from different kinds of waste material. Roma came to the municipality of Krško in the late 1950s (Štrukelj 2004: 106) and currently live in four settlements: Kerinov Grm, Drnovo, Rimš and Loke. Their presence in the Krško area was explicitly recorded in the ‘Gypsy’ census in 1964. This lists 205 families or 1,088 persons in the southern Slovenian region of Dolenjska. The Krško municipality registered 73 Roma at that time. Although Štrukelj conducted her studies among the Roma who lived in ‘improvised dwellings’, she labelled them as nomads (cf. Štrukelj 2004). Sarah Green (2005), who conducted her research in Pogoni in Greek Epirus, associates the concept of marginality not so much with otherness as with ambiguity; she views it as a consequence of close interrelations between people and places. Along these lines, I, too, find that the marginality of Roma around Krško is perceived ambiguously. Due to their imagined nomadic lifestyle and illegal settlements among the sedentary population (most dwellings were built without permit), the Roma are identified as domestic homeless. The majority population considers them as ‘our Roma’, who live near Krško, in camps, tents or illegal Romani settlements, in poor housing conditions.10 The marginality of Romani locations is also reflected in the policy towards the ‘Romani ethnic community’, which treats Roma as a marginalized minority and ascribes to them such essentialist ethnic characteristics as deprivation, poor education, poverty, social exclusion, a different value system, etc. The non-Romani population perceives

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their settlements as slums or ghettos, and their geographic marginality is a derivative of social marginality (cf. Kozorog, this volume). Romani settlements are often seen as marginal locations, as places of disputes (cf. Gregorič Bon 2008) with friction between Roma, nonRoma, experts in romological knowledge, experts and state and local government officials. Only two Romani settlements were envisaged for legalization in Krško municipal documents: Drnovo and Kerinov Grm.11 Roma from other settlements were to be displaced or resettled and emplaced in Kerinov Grm. The latter proposal, however, met with disagreement from all sides. The Romani settlement of Drnovo sits on the outskirts of the homonymous village; the Roma bought the land in the 1950s and built several dwellings. The settlement is marginal or marginalized precisely because it is settled by Roma. Often the Roma from Drnovo view themselves as different from other Roma in the Krško area, because most previously had jobs and bought plots of land, at least in part, with their savings. The settlement also has electricity and a limited drinking water supply. The inhabitants often describe it as a place where there are no disagreements, because everyone is related to one another by blood or marriage. In many interviews, they assert that they share good relations with their non-Romani neighbours who occasionally stop by for a cup of coffee. They emphasize that they have a long history of sending their children to school. Their children are not forced to wash every morning at school, as in some other schools in southeastern Slovenia. Education is one of the most important processes through which Roma have constituted locality and emplaced themselves. During the period of socialism, some inhabitants of Drnovo had jobs, which they later lost. Today, some live on social welfare, while others survive on temporary employment under the new active employment policy. Some breed horses on their own land or have permission to breed them on adjacent fields. Nevertheless, they still feel that they are more marginalized than the inhabitants of Kerinov Grm, because they do not receive any assistance. They claim that they ‘must take care of everything themselves’, because they are relatively better off than their neighbours, while Kerinov Grm is ‘regulated by the municipality’ and maintained by non-Roma. In the event of floods, for instance, when they ask for gravel to be transported to the settlement, municipal officials most often decline their request, on the grounds that they are able to take care of themselves, as they always have. Despite their social exclusion, the Roma from Drnovo are still in a better socio-economic position and consequently less marginalized than their neighbours in Kerinov Grm, Rimš and Loke.

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However, the marginality, or ambiguity, of Drnovo is generated not only by its population, but by its location as well. Like Kerinov Grm, Drnovo is located on agricultural land that has long been excluded from urban planning. The latter represents a long process of converting agricultural land into building sites. Furthermore, in accordance with the hegemonic ideology, Krško municipal documents describe the settlement as a place that requires regulation and declare most buildings on private Romani land as illegal. This suggests that they were constructed without building or other permits and that some ownership relations are not formalized, i.e., entered into the land register.

Location from Romani Perspective This section will discuss Romani spatial construction with analysis of empirical ethnographic material that was collected during short visits to Romani settlements at the end of the urbanization process in 2010. At this time, Romani settlements on the periphery of the Slovenian territory were, at least temporarily, brought to the centre of media attention. At that time, the spatial planning of Romani settlements came to completion with the legalization of Kerinov Grm, the largest Romani settlement in the region. I draw on the narratives of Romani interlocutors about their mobility and migrations, with a special emphasis on the biographical story of Tončka,12 who, in describing her movements, travels and arrival at the present location, casts light on different meanings of marginality, place and belonging.

We Have Always Been Around Here I met Tončka through my Romani host, Rahela, who had married, moved from Prekmurje (northeastern Slovenia) and started a new life with her husband in a new brick house. Tončka was her husband’s grandmother. Tončka told me a story about her father and his decision to buy a piece of land on the edge of the village after he fell ill. Around 1958, her mother discovered that the land was for sale. She visited her husband in hospital in Zagreb and they decided to buy the land, which thus became a symbol of a marginalized ‘Gypsy’ site. The purchase created quite a stir among local villagers, who refused to have Roma as their neighbours and contested such placemaking strategy. ‘They were not friendly, these people, [they said] we could not stay here. So they began to collect money to buy us off.

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The whole village pitched in’, Tončka explained. But her father did not want to hear of this: ‘I am not selling my land, period!’ The Roma chose a plot just outside Krško, because it was ‘around here’ that they had mostly made their stops while travelling in the past. Their site is a place of movement, comparable to a ship moving around a geographical location (cf. Sheller and Urry 2006: 214). Just like on a ship, Roma were moving around the Krško area while simultaneously they remained confined to their mobile dwellings and relationships. Tončka’s father worked in a nearby quarry or at different places ‘here and there’: ‘We were mostly around here. Father worked in a local pruh [stone pit]. He worked in Šentjernej and we were around Drnovo … and just outside Kerinov Grm. Around here. Then we moved towards Breg and Rimš.’ Tončka located her movement on the borders of individual sites populated by other Roma. Relations with the non-Romani population, who the Roma refer to as ‘civilians’, were complicated. Not knowing the family, the local inhabitants first regarded them as thieves. Another cause of friction was horses. Since there were no barns, their horses often sneaked out to graze the fields and meadows. But, eventually, the villagers came to know them and their relations improved. ‘We have no problems now’, Tončka said. ‘We spent most of the time here when the common land was still completely owned by the municipality, this is how we called it, so we could stay here.’ They camped on municipal land and never had any trouble with the police. They mostly moved around their plot, which they acquired while it was still owned by the local community and then bought a plot next to it. Later on, they purchased a further plot, so that the main part of the site where their houses sit is now in their ownership. Currently, the family has seven houses on their land. In one interview, Tončka turned to me and pointed to the corner of the plot, saying: ‘That is my brother down there’. Then she pointed in the direction of scattered houses nearby: ‘That is my brother, that is my brother, those are my two sons’. Through the personification of individual plots in Drnovo, Tončka and her family produce their ownership of the sites and consider them a Romani place to which they belong. They identify themselves as locals, emplaced there because they used to move and stay in this area. Therefore, they lived in a location that was generated precisely through their movements through, or relations with, individual places. When they bought the first plot of land on the selected site, their place was still constituted by, and through, movement, because acquiring the land did not stop them from travelling with horses and

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tents. A place is made through wayfaring or movement (Ingold 2009), which they describe as ‘around here and there’. The concept of ‘their own place’ seems to be a ‘meshwork’ (ibid.) of interweaving lines created through relations with places and people who travel ‘here and there’, until they buy their own land. An interpretation based on the concept of the mobility-andenclosure continuum (cf. Cunningham and Heyman 2004; Ballinger 2012) may cast additional light on the movement of Tončka’s family. Although Cunningham and Heyman’s studies focus on borders, the proposed examination of the continuum between mobility (often conceptualized as social change by explaining relations between migrants and settled populations) and enclosure (unequal social relations and relationships of power and limitations imposed on predominantly poor ‘newcomers’) provides an analytical insight into the question of why certain people have the freedom to move around and others do not (or who may only move under surveillance). Roma were free to move, but their movement was only possible within recognized limitations: they mostly moved around, stopped and spent the night on publicly owned or municipal plots from which the local authorities, police or non-Romani local population could not chase them away. In socialism, much of the land was under cooperative ownership. When Roma searched for encampment sites, they most often looked for locations in which they could stay: ‘We searched for these [publicly owned plots]; we camped on state-owned plots; no one bothered us there, they could not do anything [i.e., they could not expel them from those sites]’. Their mobility was conditioned by the availability of rest spots, which can be interpreted as surveillance, enclosure or confinement to certain places where they were allowed to stay the night. Limitations were not set by regional or state borders, but constituted through social boundaries and inequalities in access to land property. After buying the land they, unsurprisingly, met with indignation from their non-Romani neighbours, who first rejected them as unsuitable newcomers, but eventually came to accept them as part of their community.

‘Because This is How it Was When We Moved Around …’ Many interlocutors were reluctant to speak when I inquired about their memories of ‘nomadic times’. Zdravka hesitantly explained that some perhaps missed moving around, while most did not. ‘When I was little, I did not like travelling at first. Who knows, perhaps others

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feel differently. None of my brothers and sister miss the nomadic life.’ Zdravka and her brothers travelled with a horse-drawn wagon. They knew the inhabitants in the local area where they helped in the fields, usually for a payment in kind. Tončka explained: ‘We always had horses, my father had horses, they were so [wild]. Some people did not muster the courage to handle them, but I did. We didn’t ride them though. When we moved about, there were many of us, not just one family. It was boring if there was no one around.’ They remembered their routes well: they travelled with horses for days at a time across the region and often crossed borders between the republics of former Yugoslavia. ‘You must know your way around the forest. There were a lot of children and when the adults took off with horses, the children crossed Gorjanci [range of hills] on foot, straight uphill. Once we reached the summit, we watched [the adults] from above. The wagons were so small.’ Her account portrays mountain-crossing with a horse-drawn wagon as an arduous and time-consuming task. Their former paths now cross the state border between Slovenia and Croatia and many old forest trails are overgrown. After the first attempt to reconstruct the route, I concluded that they travelled in a 150 kilometre radius, with the shortest route in one direction being 75 kilometres. Tončka, however, did not talk about travelling for hours or measurable distances. Her route took several days. Some Roma still have a vivid memory of the roads and places they passed. But mostly, they remember the walking, riding and daily activities on their travels. Rather than specific names of places on the road, importance is attached to movement itself, which is manifested not only through travelling or walking, but in and through the events that occurred on the road, memories of the long mountain crossings through forests and sleeping under the open sky of the Gorjanci mountains: ‘We stopped wherever the night caught us. That is where we spent the night. And the next day we carried on. If you travelled in pairs, you could sleep in the wagon. If you had children, you had to set up a tent …’ Remembering past journeys, Tončka mentions people she travelled with and activities they shared. These included picking medicinal plants (common tormentil, alder buckthorn, belladonna or linden), which they sold to the pharmaceutical company Krka, and mushrooms (porcino, chanterelle and parasol mushrooms), which they either sold or used themselves. Through her own recollections, Tončka reconstructs imaginary movements and locations. While describing their paths and movements, my interlocutors prefer to talk about their movement and dwelling-in-travel, set in

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an undefined past, as if they were focused on the present, which is characteristic of some marginalized Romani communities (Stewart 1999). Their stories of travelling with horses and of certain places are not set in a clearly defined temporal framework. Nor can they be translated into accurate coordinates on the map. Places of destination are constituted through practice rather than conceived as fixed locations or static and delimited places. Such ways of understanding places may be most eloquently described by paraphrasing Sheller and Urry: ‘the places travelled to depend in part upon what is practised within them’ (2006: 214). The meanings of places they travelled through, or to, are contingent, among other things, on activities and tasks performed on the road: places are imagined through paths on which they spent time with their parents or children, friends and other family members, attended to horses and sought occasional work on farms or engaged in other interests, such as the aforementioned picking of medicinal plants. Unlike Gypsies in Britain, who perceived the transition from caravans to houses as a major personal loss or a form of confinement (cf. Levinson and Sparkes 2004: 717), Roma from Drnovo experienced the same transition as emplacement, living ‘in another world’ that is completely different from the hard life in tents. When living in tents during their travels, they remember being constantly harassed by police on the road and the persistent demands from the local population for their displacement from village-owned camping sites. And, finally, they remember being forcibly removed from these sites by police or expelled by the villagers. Tončka provided an illustration of life in another world, after transitioning from a tent to a house: ‘We were sheltered from the rain. I sat in the house, watching the rain fall outside …’ She said that life in a tent was uncomfortable, especially when ‘it was pouring down in buckets’. They were unable to wash and had to sleep with clothes on. In her words, moving into the ‘shanty’ changed lives. Ever since Tončka emplaced herself and remained in place, on her own land, she claims that she has never missed travelling, even though it took her some time to adjust to the idea of living in her own house, which also brought her relief from constant movement. When asked whether she missed travelling and how she felt about it, she stated that she felt absolutely no yearning for the wandering lifestyle and that the feelings connected with travels were so unpleasant it was almost impossible to describe them: Because this is how it was when we were moving [sigh]. This is how I felt. I cannot explain. Let’s say it’s night. The tent is pitched and then the

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police arrive or the villagers come and they say: ‘You have no right to be on my land’. And then you move to some other place and pitch your tent there. And they will not let you stay there either. We had to move every day, you see.

Moving Abroad, Returning Home and Building a House Tončka hesitatingly started to talk about her movement abroad after she married a foreigner, a Rom from Italy, who had often come to visit her father and horse fairs: ‘He was a regular at horse fairs … That was every Saturday … Then he came here, a number of times, and stayed with us. This is how we got to know each other and so on.’ Life in a foreign country was different. They lived outside a Romani settlement, where they were settled and financially well off: Italy would have been a great place to live if my husband had treated me well. As I said, I had no life even when I came to Italy … He beat me … I had a house, they were rich. What’s the use of being rich if … I mean, I was going through hell, and for what … For no reason at all. To beat someone, day after day …

She was often a victim of her husband’s physical abuse, which she could not understand. She reported him to the police, but they did not investigate. ‘I had two children with him. But it became unbearable. He beat me. Ugh. I could not put up with it anymore; I was losing my mind, so I said: either I finish myself and the kids or get out of there.’ Seeing no other option, she decided to run away from her husband and return with her children to the place where her parents and brothers lived. She subsequently bought a piece of land. For eighteen years, she worked as a cleaner at the nuclear power plant, which enabled her to save enough money to buy land and start building a house. And, as she put it, she was still a ‘nervous wreck’. Her parents had opposed the divorce and her living conditions had not improved: she could not say that she had a ‘good’ life or that her children were provided for. She was a single mother of two. Later, she lived with a man from Krško, with whom she had another daughter. In the meantime, her former husband had died abroad. In line with other authors of this volume, I see the meaning of home continuously shifting. According to Tončka, home is a multilocal site: it is at once ‘here’, around Krško, in a tent and then a hut, as well as ‘there’, in a foreign country, in the house of her husband. Conflating the notions of house and home (cf. Rapport and Dawson

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1998a: 6), sedentary people imagine that nomads are homeless, as not having a fixed place of shelter to live in. In Tončka’s narrative, the notion of home is, on the one hand, synonymous with a house and, on the other, determined by the feeling of security and emplacement in a certain location or place (be it imaginary or physical). Associated with abusive marriage, the house abroad does not constitute a home, which she defines as a ‘peaceful shelter’. The meanings of home are also constructed through her tense relations with the patriarchal family as well as the physical location of her father’s house on their private land, where her father was equally abusive to her. As Mallett quoted Jackson: ‘Home is always lived as a relationship, a tension’ (Jackson; in Mallett 2004: 70). After her divorce, Tončka’s home remained the site of fear, violence and rejection, until her children grew up and stood up to the tyrannical patriarch: It was horrible. As soon as Papa came home, he would start beating me … And the kids … Once they grew up, it stopped, because they would not have it. One day, Papa came home drunk again and said he was going to give me a good hiding. And Grandson said: ‘Until now you have done whatever you wanted with her. That is over now. Never raise your hand against her again.’

Then her home became a ‘site brought under control’ (cf. Rapport and Dawson 1998a: 6) by her children who offered her security. ‘Were I not ill, I could say these are the best days of my life with my kids and grandkids’, she concluded. At the time when the interview was conducted, she told me that she lived a life of harmony, love and peace.

Searching for Work On their return from Italy, Tončka and her children were often hungry until they started receiving social support. They were extremely poor and Tončka often begged. Then an acquaintance found her a job at the new nuclear power plant, where she began working as a cleaner. She described relations at work as fine. ‘We loved each other. Everyone was kind, aaah, I had no problems.’ They knew that she was a Romni, but that did not bother anyone. Her children were in school and she was even sent to the seaside to clean trade union holiday homes. ‘They sent me there, because they knew … Nobody cleaned better than I did.’ By referring to good relations at work, she cast light on the former political regime’s selective approach to employing Roma: as in

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some other communist regimes, the politics of employment granted work to those who were settled. So, in most cases, employment depended on Roma households’ efforts to improve life conditions towards assimilation and housing (cf. Stewart 1999: 28). Permanent employment enabled Tončka to purchase land and provided her with different opportunities for movement. However, she did not refer to the aforementioned occasional trips to the seaside, where she cleaned trade union holiday homes, as a form of movement or a special kind of trip. Her departure for the seaside had a symbolic, emancipatory meaning: it was a kind of metonym for holidays which only the richer working class, and not the poor or other marginalized groups, could afford. By stressing her exceptionality, she subverted the weak social position of Roma, which, above all, reflected their low-status jobs such as cleaning. Finally, by emphasizing her work as a cleaner, she also subverted the stereotype of dirty Roma.

Conclusion The chapter discusses how the marginality of Roma is established through place and movement. Social and spatial marginality, perpetuated by romology and policy, is also manifested in the narratives on movement and places as well as processes of sedentarization. The marginality of Roma is constructed with the attributes of nomadism, homelessness and non-attachment to place, completely disregarding the fact that many Roma have endeavoured to achieve sedentarization and often consider stable settlement the only possibility for leading a peaceful life. The myth of nomadism, reproduced by romology and different policies, is used by researchers, officials and politicians to legitimize the hegemonic interventions of state and local communities, which define Romani settlements as sites that facilitate displacement and re-emplacement of Roma. However, drawing on the case of Tončka, this chapter provides an explanation that differs from the aforementioned discourses: even though she was stably settled, she lived in poverty. Placing her social exclusion at the centre of her life story, she explained that she had actively constructed her place and home through movement. In accordance with the new mobilities paradigm, I go ‘beyond sedentary and nomadic conceptualizations of place and movements’ (Sheller and Urry 2006: 214). In their narratives, Tončka, Zdravka and Rahela present different modes of movement and assign them different meanings: Tončka and Zdravka described their past travels

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with horses; Rahela and Tončka talked about moving to their spouses after marriage; Tončka also talked about her departures to work at the nuclear power plant and other work-related travel, e.g., to the seaside. Whereas travelling with horses was set in some undefined past and unequivocally presented as something that she would never go back to, other modes of movement, such as departing from her house in the Romani settlement and arriving to work at the nuclear plant, were not described as movement at all. In their narratives, place was not conceptualized as static, given or separate from those visiting. Referring to an undefined past, they constructed places through memories, described as locations to which they had travelled with horses, and seen through relations with fellow travellers or people they met on the road. My interlocutors associated places with certain economic activities they performed during movements. Their narratives confirmed the thesis that the time spent travelling is not the dead time that people always seek to minimize, but time in which they performed occasional activities: ‘Being on the move can involve sets of “occasioned” activities’ (Lyons, Urry; in Sheller and Urry 2006: 213). My interlocutors reconstructed their paths in relation to the economic activities they performed within certain territorial or geopolitical boundaries that did not correspond to sedentary romological constructions. Whereas romologists simply labelled them as ‘Dolenjska Roma’, Roma from different localities created their own places by drawing social boundaries between Romani settlements in the Krško area that were recognized as impassable. Their place does not correspond to regional and state borders: on the one hand, it represents a narrow concept limited to a specific location and, on the other, it extends across the regional border from Dolenjska to Bela Krajina and across former republican borders to Croatia. Through movement, they constituted their own relative location that is never fixed, but always shifting and changing. In Tončka’s case, the sense of movement is also revealed in her physical and emotional experience, especially through her exposure to cold and harsh weather conditions while living in the tent. When she was a child, her family was often forcibly removed from individual sites, both by the neighbouring population and police. The constant movement from one place to another made hardship, fear of violence, and a constant search for shelter and peace part of her everyday life. Later, she married and moved to Italy, only to become a victim of her husband’s physical and psychological abuse. Ultimately, she divorced him despite her family’s objections. The abusive marriage, as well as the

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return home to her tyrannical father, left her with profound emotional wounds of loneliness and vulnerability. I refer to such a form of placemaking as emotional geographies (cf. Sheller and Urry 2006: 216). The narrative of abandoning life in tents is not set within a clearly defined temporal framework. Rather, it appears loosely associated with formal land purchase, gradual accumulation of bricks and ultimately the process of building a house. It is important to emphasize that moving into a house does not constitute an irreversible change from life in a tent. In her narrative, Tončka never explicitly said that this process implied a final transition from a tent to a house, which the logic of social Darwinism identifies as an irreversible and permanent transition from nomadic to sedentary existence. Upon her return from Italy, where she had lived in a house, she returned to her home-place, to her parents’ hut and back on the path where she had occasionally lived in a tent. She had a house that was too filled with violence to be called home. She had a home, which could not materialize into a house, or a shelter, until she found employment. Tončka’s story elucidates the process of emplacement in a selected settlement location and illustrates the process of enclosure. When relating her family’s abandonment of movement in favour of emplacement, her narrative hints at an internalized ideology of spatial regulation of Romani settlements: many, in fact, did want to settle. Regulation of Romani settlements can be understood as a process of enclosure, which individuals view as final and irreversible sedentarization and the only form of bearable existence. In Tončka’s stories about her current life, which she considers immobile, in her own house and in cordial family relations with her grandchildren and their partners, one may recognize the idea of an idealized sedentary, immobile home, which has perhaps also been partly imposed by the recent urbanization and spatial planning of Romani settlements. It is more likely, however, that she has constructed such an imaginary herself on the basis of her life experience. Tončka’s story is similar to those of other Roma who seek to emplace themselves. In other words, her decision to abandon ‘nomadism’ and her perception of sedentarization as an inevitable step were quite possibly a natural response to associating the mobility of home with many forms of tensions based on the legacy of her adverse childhood and adolescence. Alenka Janko Spreizer is a social anthropologist at the University of Primorska. She works as Assistant Professor and Senior Research Associate at the Faculty of Humanities (UP FHS) and at the Institute for Intercultural Studies. Currently she is Head of the Department

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of Anthropology and Cultural Studies. She has published widely on Roma and Romani studies, mobilities, movement and migrations in several journals such as Etudes Tsiganes, The Anthropology of East Europe Review and Anthropological Notebooks, among others.

Notes   1. In this chapter I use the term Roma for communities traditionally known as Gypsies. My usage is motivated by the fact that they themselves use the self-designation Rom, Roma, as also Romanichels, Sinti, Ludar and Travellers. In some texts, instead of Roma the term Roms, Romanies or Romany are also used. Following the leading academic journal the Romani Studies Journal I have decided on the term Roma for the noun and Romani for the adjective.   2. For an in-depth critical analysis of romological knowledge in Slovenia, see Janko Spreizer (2001; 2002: 190–246; 2004).   3. Romska problematika. Občina Krško. Retrieved from   4. In this chapter, I use the term non-Romani population or non-Romani neighbours. Contrary to general belief, I maintain that the local population is composed of both, Roma and non-Roma.  5. Discussions of the problem of Romani settlements shed light on the relationship between the centre and periphery. They point to the indifference of Ljubljana and state institutions, which impedes the solution to the problem of settling Romani-populated areas on the periphery and subverts the relationship by turning peripheral areas into centres of active solution-oriented minority processes.   6. As may be inferred from the constitutional and legal status of the Romani community, Roma do not have the status of a national minority and are only allowed to exercise a limited scope of special political rights as an ethnic community. Retrieved 22 May 2015 from  7. In 2006, for instance, an expert group for spatial issues in Romani settlements was set up, composed of experts and state officials. For more information on this subject, see Janko Spreizer (2011–12).   8. The group in the northeastern part of Slovenia is called prekmurski or madžarski Romi (Prekmurje or Hungarian Roma), the group in the northwestern part is labelled gorenjski or nemški Romi (Gorenjska or German Roma) or Sinti, and the group in the southeastern part of Slovenia is called dolenjski or hrvaški Romi (Dolenjska or Croatian Roma).  9. The latest publications show how the myth of restless nomads has legitimized state intervention: on the basis of the constitutional concept

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of autochthony (cf. Šumi and Josipovič 2008; Šumi and Janko Spreizer 2011, Janko Spreizer 2011–12), the state may regulate or at least implement control over the space of imagined nomads. 10. Some dwellings are improvised huts and caravans, tents in summer and in the recent years, most have already been able to build small houses for themselves. 11. As evident from discussions regarding the name of the settlement Kerinov Grm, a few inhabitants used Gorica 40 as their permanent address. Kerinov Grm was a local name for a plot of land that had been denationalized and, as word had it, was named after its former owner. In accordance with the municipal plan, the settlement was designed as the largest Romani settlement in Dolenjska, southeastern Slovenia. It is situated west of the town of Krško, in the gravel bedrock aquifer area. Politicians and the inhabitants of Krško considered Kerinov Grm an illegal and unregulated settlement that occupied foreign agricultural land and posed an ecological threat due to the lack of a sewage system. NonRomani neighbours perceived the vicinity of the settlement as a potential danger of deprivation. Therefore, the municipality agreed to provide them with compensation for any damage caused by the Roma. 12. The names of all interlocutors are pseudonyms.

References Avčin, M. 1962. ‘Ciganski živelj murskosoboškega okraja v luči demografskih podatkov’, in M. Avčin et al., Izolati Ciganov in kalvinistov v Prekmurju (manuscript). Ballinger, P. 2012. ‘Borders and the Rhythms of Displacement, Emplacement and Mobility’, in T.N. Wilson and H. Donnan (eds), A Companion to Border Studies. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd., pp. 389–404. Bönisch-Brendich, B. and C. Trundle. 2010. Local Lives. Migration and the Politics of Place. Farnham, Surrey and Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Cunningham, H. and J. McC. Heyman. 2004. ‘Introduction. Mobilities and Enclosures at Borders’, Identities. Global Studies in Culture and Power 11: 289–302. Day, S., E. Papataxiarchis and M. Stewart. 1999. ‘Consider the Lilies of the Field’, in S. Day, E. Papataxiarchis and M. Stewart (eds), Lilies of the Field. Marginal People Who Live for the Moment. Colorado and Oxford: Westview Press, pp. 1–24. Dolinar-Osole, Z. 1962. ‘Izsledki iz rodovnikov: Ciganska skupnost Pušča’, Černelavci, Vanča ves, Borejci’, in M. Avčin et al., Izolati Ciganov in kalvinistov v Prekmurju (manuscript).

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Green, S. 2005. Notes from the Balkans. Locating Marginality and Ambiguity on the Greek-Albanian Border. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Gregorič Bon, N. 2008. Prostori neskladij. Etnografija prostora in kraja v vasi Dhërmi/Drimades, južna Albanija. Ljubljana: Založba ZRC. Ingold, T. 2009. ‘Against Space. Place, Movement, Knowledge’, in P.W. Kirby (ed.), Boundless Worlds. An Anthropological Approach to Movement. Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books, pp. 29–43. Janko Spreizer, A. 2001. ‘Socialnoantropološki pogled na slovensko romologijo’, Monitor ISH 3(1–2): 29–63. ———. 2002. Vedel sem, da sem Cigan – rodil sem se kot Rom. Znanstveni rasizem v raziskovanju Romov. Ljubljana: Institutum Studiorum Humanitatis, Fakulteta za humanistične študije, Ljubljana. ———. 2004. ‘Cultural and Political Construction of Romani Ethnic Differences in Romological Discourse on Roma in Slovenia’, Anthropology of East European Review 22(2): 54–64. ———. 2011–12. ‘Emotional Geographies of Exclusion in a Selected Roma Settlement’, Etudes Tsiganes. Nouvelle Série (44–55): 174–89. Jansen, S. and S. Löfving (eds). 2009. Struggle for Home. Violence, Hope and the Movement of People. New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Kendall, S. 1999. ‘Sites of Resistance. Places on the Margin – The Traveller “Homeplace”’, in T. Acton (ed.), Gypsy Politics and Traveller Identity. Hatfield: University of Hertfordshire Press, pp. 70–89. Kirby, P.W. 2009. ‘Lost in “Space”. An Anthropological Approach to Movement’, in P.W. Kirby (ed.), Boundless Worlds. An Anthropological Approach to Movement. Oxford and New York: Berghahn Books, pp. 1–27. Levinson, M.P. and A.C. Sparkes. 2004. ‘Gypsy Identity and Orientations to Space’, Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 33(6): 704–34. Mallett, S. 2004. ‘Understanding Home. A Critical Review of the Literature’, The Sociological Review 52(1): 62–89. McVeigh, R. 1999. ‘Theorising Sedentarism. The Roots of AntiNomadism’, in T. Acton (ed.), Gypsy Politics and Traveller Identity. A Companion Volume to Romani Culture and Gypsy Identity. Hatfield: University of Hertfordshire Press, pp. 7–25. Pogačnik, A. 1962. ‘Antropološki pregled dveh izolatov v Prekmurju’, in M. Avčin et al., Izolati Ciganov in kalvinistov v Prekmurju (manuscript). ‘Romska problematika. Občina Krško’. Retrieved 22 May 2015 from

‘Romska skupnosti. Ustavno – pravni položaj’. Retrieved 22 May 2015 from Rapport, N. and A. Dawson. 1998a. ‘The Topic and the Book’, in N. Rapport and A. Dawson (eds), Migrants of Identity. Perceptions of

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‘Home’ in the World of Movement. Oxford and New York: Berg, pp. 3–17. ———. 1998b. ‘Home and Movement. A Polemic’, in N. Rapport and A. Dawson (eds), Migrants of Identity. Perceptions of ‘Home’ in the World of Movement. Oxford and New York: Berg, pp. 19–38. Sheller, M. and J. Urry. 2006. ‘The New Mobilities Paradigm’, Environment and Planning 38: 207–26. Shields, R. 1991. Places on the Margin. Alternative Geographies of Modernity. London and New York: Routledge. Sigona, N. 2005. ‘Locating “the Gypsy Problem”. The Roma in Italy. Stereotyping, Labelling and “Nomad Camps”’, Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies 31(4): 741–56. Stewart, M. 1999. ‘“Brothers” and “Orphans”. Images of Equality Among Hungarian Rom’, in S. Day, E. Papataxiarchis and M. Stewart (eds), Lilies of the Field. Marginal People Who Live for the Moment. Studies in the Ethnographic Imagination. Colorado and Oxford: Westview Press, pp. 27–44. Šiftar, V. 1962. ‘Cigani’, in M. Avčin et al., Izolati Ciganov in kalvinistov v Prekmurju (manuscript). Štrukelj, P. 1964. 1964. Kultura Ciganov v Sloveniji in problem njihove asimilacije s slovenskim prebivalstvom. Ljubljana: Filozofska fakulteta Univerze v Ljubljani. (Inavgularna disertacija). ———. 2004. Tisočletne podobe nemirnih nomadov. Zgodovina in kultura Romov v Sloveniji. Ljubljana: Družina. Šumi, I. and A. Janko Spreizer. 2011. ‘That Which Soils the Nation’s Body. Discriminatory Discourse of Slovenian Academics on the Romany, Foreigners and Women’, Anthropological Notebooks 17(3): 101–21. Šumi, I. and D. Josipovič. 2008. ‘Avtohtonost in Romi. K ponovnemu premisleku načel manjšinske politike v Sloveniji/Autochthonism and Romany. Towards Rethinking the Principles of Minority Policies’, Dve domovini/Two homelands 28: 93–108. Theodosiou, A. 2003. ‘“Be-longing” in a “Doubly Occupied Place”. The Parakalamos Gypsy Musicians’, Romani Studies 14(2): 25–58.

9 Movement versus Roots? Ivory Coast – from Transnational Brotherhood to Autochthony Thomas Fillitz

Introduction This chapter will discuss the movement of people and their periodical spatial reorientation/repositioning using the state of Ivory Coast as a case study. With independence in 1960, the state was not defined as a sovereign, bounded entity and did not rely on citizenship. Contrary to concepts of African Unity (Nkrumah in Ghana), or African Federalism (Senghor in Senegal), which had both failed by 1960, the politics of President Houphouët-Boigny were successful for a longer period, and enabled the free movement of people from neighbouring francophone states as well as from Ivory Coast’s northern regions towards the economically important regions in the south. Political essentialisms became acute only around 1995 in Ivory Coast with the dominance of discourses on ivoirité, a definition of cultural synthesis for the state’s population that has since led to politically and economically drastic structural changes. These culminated first in the coup d’état of 24 December 1999 and, a few years later, on 19 September 2002, in the outburst of civil war that split the state into two zones of influence. In dealing with Ivory Coast, I shall first rely on the concept of the state as a site of symbolic and cultural production: the state as producing metaphors of representation. The state constructs several

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spatial properties that ensure its sovereignty and thus its specificity through such images and concomitant practices (Ferguson and Gupta 2002). Second, such spatializations of the state (Ferguson and Gupta 2002: 982) unravel states not as unitary (or homogenous) entities, but refer to ideological and economic aspects, which are constitutive of state construction (Sharma and Gupta 2006: 8). Between the 1960s and the first decade of the twenty-first century, three major ideological metaphors dominated the political and cultural discourse in Ivory Coast that not only inform the relationship of the Ivoirian state towards its neighbouring states, but fundamentally determine the movement of people and strategies of rooting and separation based on the categories of citizenship and foreigner. These are brotherhood and hospitality in the context of ethnic geopolitics (1960–1970s), ivoirisation (1970s until mid-1980s), and finally that of ivoirité (launched in 1995). Adopting a systemic perspective of the state in considering these metaphors, I aim to show that distinct spaces of modernity are ideologically produced and determine patterns of movement and rooting of social agents (see Kirby 2011). Within the overall framework of this volume, this chapter highlights the political processes towards claims for spatial belonging based on rising ideas of exclusive citizenship (cf. Gregorič Bon and Repič, this volume). In this example, I conceive of movement as having three major aspects. The first aspect is the trajectories and frictions produced by state ideologies: the mobilization of discourses redefining state sovereignty so as to secure priority for citizens while excluding various categories of foreigners from access to power and resources leads to concepts of autochthony, i.e., spatially territorializing people according to criteria of rooting (see MarshallFratani 2006: 12; Geschiere 2009: 16). The second aspect relates to those metaphors representing different state attitudes that enforced specific large-scale migration movements both within Ivory Coast and from neighbouring brother-states as well as later remigrations into villages and states of origin. Thirdly, movement also enhances fundamental, new socio-economic realities in rural and urban areas, be they generational conflicts in villages between youths and elders, implications for local, small-scale plantation systems and agroindustries, or changes of urban spatial structures that affect industry and state administration all the way down to the informal sector. Hence, this macro perspective on state-determined changing patterns of movement and rooting of people in Ivory Coast emphasizes aspects of economic-political freedom for mobility, which are later transformed into constraints, a topic that is also dealt

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with by Lulle (this volume). Lulle shows the effects of Guernsey’s housing and working permit laws on the ‘wayfaring’ of Latvian migrant workers and their visions of a better life. The example of Ivory Coast complements these reflections by focusing on how the economic and political intentions of the state regulate movement and rooting and, in so doing, how the production of place is periodically renegotiated. This also relates to Lofranco’s considerations of ‘selective movement patterns’ (Lofranco, this volume). Lofranco deals with ethnic cleansing in post-war Sarajevo, which forced people to move into particular areas of the city. From the 1970s onwards, the example of Ivory Coast shows historically intensified ‘dynamics of separation’ (Lofranco, this volume) result from the production of citizenship on the basis of ideologies of autochthony. By the mid-1990s, this led to two different concepts of foreigners. First, a foreigner was a citizen from one of the neighbouring states (former brother-states). Second, and more importantly, while being Ivoirian, a foreigner was one who had no generationally proven origin in the economically and politically dominant regions of southern Ivory Coast. Both concepts caused heavy remigration pressures on these ‘foreigners’ and supported claims for the monopoly on specific regions for so-constructed locals. This chapter aims to show the interrelatedness of processes of movement and rooting and how their interrelatedness engenders dynamic spatializations. These simultaneously affect production of place and geopolitically changing spatial relations. The following three sections discuss the implications of the three ideological metaphors in respect to movement and rooting. This historical perspective shows how, on that basis, spaces of vernacular modernity are periodically reformulated in Ivory Coast. Thus processes of rooting are not so much a return to ‘traditional’, stable and fixed realities of sedentarism, an emphasis on being and belonging, but are co-constitutive for mobility and spatialization, and thus should be examined as part of a ‘project of Becoming’ (Massey 2007 [1994]: 119). The movement towards the ideology of autochthony thereafter is, rather, a conscious production of various strategies for controlling the access to power institutions, to the means of production and to employment (see Geschiere 2009: 26f).

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Changing Spatializations and State Metaphors of Ivory Coast ‘Brotherhood and Hospitality’ and ‘Ethnic Geopolitics’ When Ivory Coast achieved independence in 1960, President Houphouët-Boigny did not promote an image of the Ivoirian state as an independent, sovereign state delimiting itself from the neighbouring ones, in particular from those of the AOF (Afrique occidentale francophone); instead, the image put forward was of the country as a ‘brother-state’, with the president himself in the role of the ‘elder brother’. These images were informed by the consensus between leaders in the sous-région that state borders were those arbitrarily negotiated by the colonial powers at the Berlin conference in 1884–85. For Houphouët-Boigny, the Ivoirian was the brother of the Malian, the Voltaic, the Guinean, the Senegalese, etc. On these assumptions, he had founded the RDA (Rassemblement démocratique africain) movement and continually proclaimed the ‘real solidarity’ between the francophone states in sub-Saharan West Africa (Dembélé 2002: 132). On the one hand, this image should be a powerful means to confront and break the hegemony of France, as well as to help renegotiate the relationship between the former colonized and the colonial metropolis. On the other hand, it significantly impacted the population’s concept of the Ivoirian state, which subsequently had economic implications. This is because brotherhood refers to the old West African cultural concept of regulating duties and rights between kin; hospitality would be seen as the particular quality of the Ivoirian, being proud of welcoming the brother from other regions into one’s local community, i.e., the village or the urban centre. The ‘new man’ thus promoted would not be a citizen with privileged rights, but the brother who welcomed his kin and was willing to share with him the cultural community of the Ivory Coast (ibid.: 132). On these grounds, immigration to Ivory Coast grew rapidly and reached its peak in 1988 with immigrants comprising 28 per cent of the total population. Ten years later, in 1998, there were over four million immigrants in Ivory Coast (26 per cent), with concentrations of 50–60 per cent in the south, in cities as well as in rural areas. When analysing the spatial movements of people, one has to discriminate between internal migration from the northern regions to the cities and countryside of the south, i.e., from the savannah to the forest

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regions with their economic potential for plantations (cacao and coffee), and the development of commerce and services in the cities, or in the vicinity of the local villages. The other large migratory movement was transnational, namely from Senegal, Mali, Guinea, and above all from Upper Volta (later renamed Burkina Faso) to the southern regions where a workforce was urgently needed for economic production. In the early days after independence, the Ivoirian state therefore did not make any distinction between citizen and foreigner; the latter category was, in fact, not even defined in those days. Accordingly, Houphouët-Boigny allocated the right to vote to all immigrants and state education was open to everybody. The state distributed scholarships to youth from anywhere, and housed them without differentiation in order to produce a literate, uniform social human resource. The population, however, responded differently to, and took advantage of, this system. Children of northerners tended to be integrated into family businesses, commerce, transport, craftsmanship, etc., while the children of southerners relied strongly on educational opportunities and the chance of social promotion that would come with employment in state administration in the cities (ibid.: 142). The idea of brotherhood and hospitality nevertheless did not prevent a social and spatial distribution founded on ethnic criteria and economic terms. The basic principles guiding social life amounted to living close to each other and interacting but without intermarrying. In the southern countryside, local villages defined their own welcoming structures for small peasant plantations. Foreigners, whether from the north or from neighbouring countries, were allocated plots at the margins of the village community, and did not really participate in communitarian village life. The local population had to adapt particular customs because of deforestation promoted by the state’s insistence on the agrarian exploitation of the soil. Due to these politics, the soil passed from lineage property to ownership of the autochthonous nuclear family, while kin relationships were drawn upon for plantation work. They integrated foreigners via the system of the tutorat: autochthonous landholders would either sell plots to foreigners, or rent them out on a long-term basis. The tutor then became either a patron or father, and a relationship of permanent duties was established. Small amounts of the yearly production were to be handed to the tutor, or a contribution towards special expenses of the tutor was ensured, for instance for funerals. This formal relationship was transmitted over generations (Chauveau 2000: 106; Marshall-Fratani 2006: 15f).

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Although the state accepted that small plantation agriculture remained founded on local, autochthonous structures, it strongly promoted modern agro-industrial plantations in the south of the country. To these ends, the state occupied vast areas of the forest regions and denied the local communities all rights to possession of the land. Moreover, such intensive production required a significant input in human workforce, i.e., migrants from the north or from neighbouring countries, mostly from Burkina Faso. Within this structure, these migrants were considered merely to be land labourers and were housed in special labour camps on the plantations (Dembélé 2002: 142). In the urban centres, the development of a modern industry went hand in hand with the development of traditional crafts in the informal sector. Given that professions such as traders, craftsmen, creditors and public transport operators tend to be controlled by groups, they rely strongly on social and cultural networks. Broadly speaking, two major groups provided these services, though not exclusively: the Diula, who originated from the north, and the Lebanese. The Diula were prominent in the informal sector, small trade craftsmanship and the transport system. The Lebanese and Syrians, on the other hand, became involved primarily in the sector of modern production, wholesale trade and the credit economy, with which they are traditionally associated. Although the state claims its rights to the land of urban centres, the cities seem nevertheless structured according to primarily socio-economic criteria. Not only are there quarters with strong ethnic components, but groups from neighbouring regions also settle closely together thus giving way to an image of a cultural north-south fracture, with the Lebanese living in the city centres (ibid.: 139–40). The metaphor of the Ivoirian state as a hospitable brother to all people of the sous-région, however, is complemented by HouphouëtBoigny’s metaphor of the state’s ‘ethnic geopolitics’. Its main features include: the dominance of the president’s ethnic group in strategic posts of the administration, the representation of major ethnic groups at government level around ministers, the alliance of the state with the traditional chieftainship, ministers and other high state employees as regional leaders, absolute control of media, the redistribution politics of the state to counterbalance economic inequalities due to the development differences between the northern, central and southern regions, and the president of the state as the sole producer of national politics (ibid.: 163). The relationship between both metaphors can be characterized by the fact that economic wealth and social development are guaranteed

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by the state party and its redistributive powers, by accepting traditional land rights and rights for particular professions, and by allowing a local agrarian production and an urban informal sector while promoting modern rural and urban industrial production.1 The ruling mono-party can garner the electoral support of these groups by considering migrants as brothers, giving them access to plots of lands with the possibility of accessing the national educational system, and giving them the right to vote. The autochthonous communities are in an advantageous position through the state’s price guarantees on agrarian products, the maintenance of their local social structures (local chieftainship, tutorat, etc.), the redistributive activities of state institutions and the improvement of their quality of life. This early phase of the postcolonial state therefore corresponded to a spatialization that relied on several elements. It allowed interand intra-state migration. At the local level, place-making politics combined traditional rights with a small-scale neighbourhood, and the creation of independent new industrial spaces.

The Metaphor of Ivoirisation The decade between 1970 and 1980 brought about further changes to the socio-economic spatialization. During this period, the state pushed ahead with agrarian production, a major spatial extension of the agro-industries, diversification of produce (pineapple, palm trees, etc.), and the small farmer plantation system. The same was true of urban areas, where modernization and the abolition of monopolies (e.g., the transport system controlled by Diula) encompassed all domains from industry to the informal sector. Finally, the politics of migration directed towards the productive regions of the south were intensified in the interest of increased economic production, now also between different regions in the south (e.g., from the southeast to the southern central areas). The state proclaimed full sovereignty over all of the country’s resources. Its programme amounted to a liberalization from any local constraints, be they customary land rights or occupational (ethnic) monopolies and, in so doing, provided free access to the means of production for those who had entrepreneurial interests. In this light, President Houphouët-Boigny proclaimed in 1976 ‘the land belongs to the one who cultivates it’ (Dembélé 2002: 149; translation by the author).2 This gave rise to a new social entrepreneurial class in both rural and urban areas, which replaced former networks based on ethnic

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affinities. In rural areas, local (autochthonous) communities were deprived of their land rights, either because of the extension of agroindustries, or because of the change of ownership, which now passed on to the migrant peasant labourers. Deforestation activities were supported on a large scale. In urban zones, the communitarian social relationships were destabilized by the appearance of new social agents such as cooperatives or various types of economic societies, which took over former specialized fields of economic competence. Former producers, mostly organized on the basis of kin relationships, were pushed to the margins of the economic field. The rural and urban models of the 1960s came into conflict and were saturated. There was a shortage of land in the south and there was drought in the northern rural regions. The absorption of educated youth into the state administration became an issue for those from the south but not for those from the north, who had less chance of being absorbed into the urban modern economies. The state promoted remigration to the villages in order to modernize the village system with a generation of young people who were literate and had urban experiences that went beyond the local, ethnic horizons (Chauveau and Bobo 2003: 27). But functions were scarce and defended by the village elders, and heads of families went on in controlling the tutorat.3 In that situation, youth claimed access to employment and land on the grounds of being Ivoirian, and insisted that foreigners should leave the country. Therefore, in 1978, the state party created for the first time a ‘Ministry of Labour and Ivoirisation’ (Dembélé 2002: 158). In order to cope with its politics of brotherhood and hospitality, and with the claims of the literate youth, the state party combined the privileges of Ivoirians in the public sector with the need for national sovereignty. This law was further extended to the private sector, then to the commerce and service sectors and, finally, the state forbade any recruitment of non-Ivoirians in these fields (ibid.: 159). In addition, free access to the educational system (including scholarships and housing for everyone) was abrogated in 1980 (ibid.: 160). Finally, the new state metaphor of ivoirisation changed the vision of the ‘new man’: brotherhood and hospitality were complemented by national citizenship, which in turn conveyed exclusive rights from the public to the informal sector. During this period, the introduction of national citizenship and of the state’s sovereignty over all resources fundamentally determined spatialization and movement. For the first time, Ivory Coast defined its relationship to neighbouring states in national terms. In

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conjunction with the scarcity of resources and employment, these factors influenced the politics of migration flows. At the inter-state level, the tendency shifted from immigration to Ivory Coast to stimulating the emigration of foreigners to their countries of origin. This process was paralleled at the intra-state level, where remigration to the villages was promoted. At the same time, however, state politics tended to liberate rooting from customary regulations, be it with respect to the settlement or to professions. Citizenship and entrepreneurial activities became the new rules.

The Metaphor of Ivoirité Houphouët-Boigny’s politics of ivoirisation ended in the early 1980s at a time when regional and local citizenship was heavily claimed by popular segments of the society, which further brought about a spatial separation in localities according to ethnic affiliation.4 This meant claiming priority vis-à-vis foreigners from neighbouring countries at the national level and, locally, in the countryside, privileging local ethnic groups over any other (Dembélé 2002: 161). The imposition of a resident permit (carte de séjour)5 for foreigners who wished to work and live in Ivory Coast in 1990 intensified the friction between Ivoirians and foreigners. These manifested themselves above all in police abuse and humiliation of foreigners, though this had already started by the mid-1980s. It was an initiative of the newly appointed prime minister Alassane Ouattara, who convinced HouphouëtBoigny that it was necessary for income to be generated by the state.6 The state, however, faced more pressures due to transnational and global creditors (IMF, the World Bank, France, the United States, and later the EU, to mention the major ones). Ivory Coast got enmeshed in politics which the World Bank had formulated for Africa in its report of 1989 with catchwords like ‘bypassing the state’, ‘strengthening civil society and NGOs’, and ‘decentralization’ (Geschiere 2009: 18). The first Structural Adjustment Programme (1980–87) set the objectives of development, intervened directly in political decisions regarding macroeconomics, and imposed upon the state authoritarian forms of intervention for those socio-economic measures they considered compelling (Campbell 2000: 144). Intensified privatization, opening up of frontiers to foreign capital, reduction of the redistributive functions of the state, liberalization of prices and dismissals in the public sector were cornerstones of this programme. In 1990, when the multi-party system was installed, and following the death of President Houphouët-Boigny in December 1993, Ivory

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Coast’s macroeconomics had collapsed, and so had the former rural and urban models. Transnational and global discourses (e.g., the World Bank) had degraded the state from a country with middlerange revenue to one of the least developed countries in the world. Furthermore, the IMF had decided a 50 per cent devaluation of the Franc CFA, which was officially proclaimed by the fourteen countries of the monetary community in Dakar on 11 January 1994. While the IMF refused to give any more loans to the state, France refused to financially support structural adjustments without the consent of that global creditor (Boa Thiémélé 2003: 145). With the next programme of Structural Adjustment (1994–97), Ivory Coast again reached a positive macroeconomic growth of seven per cent in 1996; however, much of this was to be an ephemeral moment (ibid.: 148). Microeconomics, on the other hand, were disastrous: massive dismissals, unemployment and ever growing inflation affected local households heavily. For a long time, transnational and global creditors did not consider these consequences of their macroeconomic dictate (Campbell 2000: 145).7 Within such global, transnational and regional dramatic contexts, the newly appointed President Konan Bédié formulated his political programme for the state at the convention of the ruling party, the PDCI-RDA (Parti démocratique de Côte d’Ivoire-Rassemblement démocratique africain) on 26 August 1995. The objectives were: to bring about a society of freedom based on the respect of human rights, the unity of the nation and the reduction of any inequalities, to realize an active, participatory democracy, to reform elementary education and to ensure the promotion of men (Boa Thiémélé 2003: 154f). This programme was envisaged to promote a nation state that was going to realize a cultural synthesis under the ‘white umbrella of ivoirité’ (ibid.: 155): ‘We pursue the affirmation of our cultural personality, the deployment of the Ivoirian man in what determines his specificity, what one may call his ivoirité’ (Konan Bédié in ibid.: 155; translation by the author).8 According to Konan Bédié, the new metaphor of the state is primarily inclusive of the autochthonous people of Ivory Coast, as well as of those who are living, working and sharing ‘our values’ (Konan Bédié in ibid.: 156). It is clear from Konan Bédié’s programmatic text,9 and corroborated by various statements in the media, that this concept refers to a cultural creolization and, to a lesser extent, to sociocultural exclusion. The launching of this cultural debate on ivoirité also had the effect of diverting from other important developments in society: rising inequality, competition of political parties to profit from privatization

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(Losch 2000: 13), various conflicts between different groups of social agents (Chauveau 2000: 115), the defence of global and transnational financial capital in local economics and the programme of austerity for the population (Boa Thiémélé 2003: 152f). Two lines of discourse followed the outlines of 1995 and were closely connected: on the one hand, the question of who is included in these considerations and, on the other, the question of the electorate, i.e., who is allowed to vote and who can stand for president, with the next elections being scheduled for late 1995. Both lines of debate were to have direct political consequences. President Konan Bédié was surrounded by intellectuals who had founded the forum Curdiphe (Cellule Universitaire de Recherche et de Diffusion des Idées et actions du Président Konan Bédié). They were interpreting and discussing the concept of ivoirité and established lists of peoples included or excluded in this cultural symbiosis. Georges Niangoran-Bouah, then director of the cultural heritage of the Ministry of Culture, defined, for instance, four criteria for clarifying who is considered a member of the state: (a) To originate from the same country – to descend from the same ancestors who founded the various provinces; (b) to have as a first language one of the languages of the five largest ethnolinguistic groups of the country; (c) to have the same life habits (culture and civilization); (d) to share the same sociocultural world (to have the same chief and to be subordinated under the same laws). He moreover compiled a list of the autochthonous ‘with mythical origin’ and the autochthonous ‘without mythical origin’ (Curdiphe 2000: 67f). It is understandable that several authors consider the group and its writings to be highly problematic. Curdiphe is a group of ‘praising university intellectuals’ (Boa Thiémélé 2003: 202), and its writings are labelled among others as ‘scriptural excess’ (Bayart, Geschiere and Nyamnjoh 2001: 192; see also Dozon 2000). Ivoirité also intensifies the popular process of construction of an exclusive regional and urban citizenship, which had started by the mid-1980s. All local rural groups, the autochthonous, claim their land rights on the basis of a local citizenship, i.e., being autochthonous in a specific territory. Such a citizenship then would privilege Ivoirians over foreigners from neighbouring countries, but would also affirm the status of the member of the local ethnic group, for whom any migrant from another area of the state would be a foreigner as well. The concept therefore intensifies, in particular, the breach between northerners and southerners, be it in the countryside or in urban spaces (Dembélé 2002: 161f). But this interpretation of the south also

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has implications for questions of political power. Northerners have close links to their kin in the neighbouring states, and are religiously and culturally different from those from the south, who are fully embedded within the southern part of the state. They therefore claim that real ivoirité is what they are living, and nothing else (Dozon 2000: 59). Corresponding to the ethnic geopolitics of HouphouëtBoigny, which had implanted state power within the ethnic group of the president, they insisted that political power was the monopoly of candidates from the south. Brotherhood and hospitality were now reduced to the sole factor of hospitality, i.e., accepting migrants from the north. Claims to political power, even local, were strictly rejected (Dembélé 2002: 162). This so-called cultural debate, however, also launched the issuing of a series of laws by the state, among which the following deserve mentioning: the election act of 13 December 1994 and the land right act of 23 December 1998. The former reserved the exclusive electoral right of Ivoirians, raised the issue of the legality of identity cards and regulated the candidature for presidency. The identity card, a precondition for having the right to vote, could legally be issued only to those who were born of a father or a mother who was Ivoirian. After the imposition of the resident permit in 1990, this new legal definition of the identity card was another threat against foreigners. Regarding the candidature for presidency, the act defined it as follows: the person must be aged forty years or over, be Ivoirian from birth, with father and mother themselves Ivoirian from birth, have never renounced Ivoirian citizenship, and have lived for the last five years prior to election continuously within the state territory (Boa Thiémélé 2003: 207).10 Regarding land rights, the government of Konan Bédié bowed to the pressure exerted by the population since the 1980s against the ownership of land by foreigners in village communities. It negated any right to land to foreigners in the customary domain (see Chauveau 2000). In a general way, the law regulates the restitution of land that was in the hands of foreigners after their death to its customary owners, or allows it to be rented by their descendants (Dembélé 2003: 39). If there were no claims or proofs on land rights to the state within a ten-year period, the land would pass into state ownership (Chauveau 2000: 97). The southern local communities, nevertheless, interpreted the notion of ‘customary ownership’ according to their view of ivoirité, and extended the exclusion of ownership of customary land to any member of a different ethnic group of Ivory Coast (Dembélé 2002: 39).

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After the coup d’état of 24 December 1999, General Robert Gueï, installed by the mutineers as president of the republic, shifted the debate of ivoirité to the questions of the electorate and who may be a candidate for presidency: the latter was now defined as having to be of exclusively Ivoirian descent for over two generations, i.e., all sets of grandparents had to be Ivoirian from birth, with all other previously mentioned aspects also in place. In anticipation of the elections of October 2000, several politicians (e.g., Laurent Gbagbo, leader of the FPI – Front populaire ivoirien) claimed, from early 2000, that identity cards had been issued illegally to people who did not fulfil the requirements; the president of the Ivoirian League of Human Rights (LIDHO) claimed in March 2000 that all identity cards should be controlled back to 1990 (Le Pape 2002: 32). Laurent Gbagbo, who became president in October 2000, was no longer interested in having a cultural debate about ivoirité, but he was eager to regulate a legal definition of the Ivoirian citizen. He therefore launched the so-called technical procedure (opération nationale d’identification-Oni, see Warnier 2011), which became even more restrictive: the status of a citizen could only be clarified by descent, i.e., the status of the parents could only be identified by their relationship to the village, not in which they were born, but from where their family originated. Village chiefs would therefore be responsible for authorizing this status (Dembélé 2003: 43). The regulation further required people from the north to better demarcate themselves from their kin in neighbouring countries. Autochthony had reached a new climax.

Concluding Remarks The developments in Ivory Coast from the perspective of the ideological spatialization of the state enable us to see how the state produced its sovereignty differently over time. These periodical reformulations of its modernity are articulated in changing movement patterns of social agents and groups, and are strongly dependent on the economic and political interests of state authorities and parts of its population. Most interestingly, in the early period after independence, sovereignty and citizenship were marginal in order to promote migration from neighbouring (francophone) states as well as domestic migration from the north to its economically important south. Under the ideology of ivoirisation, a first movement toward autochthony, the newly introduced category of citizenship and

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the proclamation of the state’s sovereignty over all resources fundamentally determined two types of movement: emigration of the newly-created foreigners to their countries of origin and, at the domestic level, remigration of urban youth to their natal villages. The third adjustment, the rise of the ideology of ivoirité, reinforced the category of citizenship due to the aggravation of the ideology of autochthony. Ethnic separation now characterized movements of people. The central criterion for citizenship was transformed into rooting in the place of origin of one’s parents. Northerners moreover had to prove it by demarcating themselves from their kin across state borders. Domestic migrant-foreigners thereafter differed in status from foreigners from neighbouring countries insofar as the former had an identity card, whereas the latter were issued with a resident permit. By and large, both were considered to be temporary residents in the southern regions. Mobility and transnational trajectories are often connected to con­ cepts of present modernity and globalization, while claims for rooting and local identities appear to be tradition-orientated, hence as a return movement (see Friedman 1999: 253). In this context, the case of Ivory Coast is interesting because this historical approach clearly shows that both processes are well inscribed within an ongoing production of ver­ nacular modernity. In this respect, the enforcement of autochthony as an exclusive criterion for citizenship is exemplary, because it shifts the examination of rooting, the claims of belonging, to a modern ‘project of Becoming’ (Massey 2007 [1994]: 119ff). In sum, these essentialisms regarding citizenship and the concomitant stigmatization of foreigners are responses to democratization, rising economic pressures and violent interventions of transnational and global creditors (see Bayart, Geschiere and Nyamnjoh 2001: 182, 189; Warnier 2011). More specifically, rooting implies three processes. For domestic migrants, it corresponds, during the period of ivoirisation, to a return of youth to their natal villages as a solution to unemployment in cities and a modernization of local village structures. Relocation thereafter was linked to a new redistribution of older social relations. Rooting in the context of ivoirité occurs for the sake of traditionally validating citizenship. It constitutes a displacement from one’s lived space to an imaginary spatial relocation because it often had no importance for a person’s social life. In respect to the creation of the category of foreigner from neighbouring countries, the promotion of their emigration was also a dislocation from their lived spaces into environments that their kin had often left a long time ago (see Gregorič Bon and Repič, this volume).

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Finally, essentialist claims and assessments of roots and autochthony, as well as the categories of foreigner and the patterns of movement that the state of Ivory Coast pursued, clearly unravel the dichotomy between the ideological essentialism of belonging (whether expressed by locals or by state authorities) and the real processes of becoming within which these categories are inscribed. Thomas Fillitz is an Associate Professor at the Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology, University of Vienna. He has taught at various universities in Europe, and between 2007 and 2013 was Secretary of the European Association of Social Anthropologists. Major research interests are global art, art worlds, art markets, globalization and transnational processes. He is the co-editor (with A.J. Saris) of Debating Authenticity. Concepts of Modernity in Anthropological Perspective (Berghahn).

Notes   1. Lulle emphasizes in her chapter that migrants are sought on Guernsey for their contribution to the island’s economic growth (Lulle, this volume).   2. ‘La terre appartient à celui qui la cultive.’ According to Chauveau and Marshall-Fratani it was as early as 1963 (Chauveau 2000: 105; MarshallFratani 2006: 20).  3. After 1970, the tutorat was an affair of permanent negotiations from which the youth were mostly excluded (Chauveau 2000: 107).  4. Lofranco’s chapter deals predominantly with dynamics of separation (Lofranco, this volume).   5. Regarding the resident permit, see the importance of work permit laws for migrants in Guernsey (Lulle, this volume).  6. In 2001, President Laurent Gbagbo lowered the price of the resident permit by a third. In November 2007, he promised to abolish the document.  7. In the second and third Structural Adjustment Programmes, they considered that the state was responsible for this disastrous social situation (Campbell 2000: 146ff).   8. ‘Ce que nous poursuivons, … l’épanouissement de l’homme ivoirien dans ce qui fait sa spécificité, ce que l’on peut appeler son ivoirité.’   9. Henri Konan Bédié. 1995. Le progrès pour nous tous, le bonheur pour chacun, oui nous le pouvons. Discours-programme. 10. This law was considered to be modelled against the candidature of Alasane Ouattara: the Ivoirian birth of both of his parents was not assured, he

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was a representative of Upper Volta (Burkina Faso) in transnational organizations, and he had not lived continuously in Ivory Coast for five years prior to the 1995 elections. This was also the reason why, on 6 October 2000, the High Court denied the right of candidature of Ouattara to the presidential elections of October 2000 (Le Pape 2002: 45).

References Bayart, J.F., P. Geschiere and F. Nyamnjoh. 2001. ‘Autochtonie, démocratie et citoyenneté en Afrique’, Critique internationale 10: 177–93. Boa Thiémélé, R. 2003. L’Ivoirité entre culture et politique. Paris: L’Harmattan. Campbell, B. 2000. ‘Réinvention du politique en Côte d’Ivoire et responsabilité des bailleurs de fonds multilatéraux’, Politique Africaine 78: 142–56. Chauveau, J.P. 2000. ‘Question foncière et construction nationale en Côte d’Ivoire. Les enjeux silencieux d’un coup d’État’, Politique Africaine 78: 94–125. Chauveau, J.P. and K.S. Bobo. 2003. ‘La situation de guerre dans l’arène villageoise. Un exemple dans le Centre-Ouest Ivoirien’, Politique Africaine 89: 12–33. Curdiphe. 2000. ‘L’ivoirité, ou l’esprit du nouveau contrat social du Président H.K. Bédié. (extraits)’, Politique Africaine 78: 65–69. Dembélé, O. 2002. ‘La construction économique et politique de la catégorie “étranger” en Côte d’Ivoire’, in M. Le Pape and C. Vidal (eds), Côte d’Ivoire. L’année terrible 1999–2000. Paris: Karthala, pp. 123–72. ———. 2003. ‘Côte d’Ivoire. La fracture communautaire’, Politique Africaine 89: 34–48. Dozon, J.P. 2000. ‘La Côte d’Ivoire entre démocratie, nationalisme et ethnonationalisme’, Politique Africaine 78: 45–62. Ferguson, J. and A. Gupta. 2002. ‘Spatializing States. Toward an Ethnography of Neoliberal Governmentality’, American Ethnologist 29(4): 981–1002. Friedman, J. 1999. ‘The Hybridization of Roots and the Abhorrence of the Bush’, in M. Featherstone and S. Lash (eds), Spaces of Culture. City – Nation – World. London, Thousand Oaks and New Delhi: Sage, pp. 230–56. Geschiere, P. 2009. The Perils of Belonging. Autochthony, Citizenship, and Exclusion in Africa and Europe. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. Kirby, P.W. 2011. ‘Lost in ‘Space’. An Anthropological Approach to Movement’, in P.W. Kirby (ed.), Boundless Worlds. An Anthropological

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Approach to Movement. New York and London: Berghahn Books, pp. 1–28. Le Pape, M. 2002. ‘Chronologie politique de la Côte d’Ivoire, du coup d’État aux élections’, in M. Le Pape and C. Vidal (eds), Côte d’Ivoire. L’année terrible 1999–2000. Paris: Karthala, pp. 13–50. Losch, B. 2000. ‘La Côte d’Ivoire en quête d’un nouveau projet national’, Politique Africaine 78: 5–25. Marshall-Fratani, R. 2006. ‘The War of “Who is Who”. Autochthony, Nationalism, and Citizenship in the Ivoirian Crisis’, African Studies Review (49)2: 9–43. Massey, D. 2007 [1994]. Space, Place, and Gender. Minneapolis: University of Minneapolis Press. Sharma, A. and A. Gupta. 2006. ‘Introduction. Rethinking Theories of the State in an Age of Globalization’, in A. Sharma and A. Gupta (eds), The Anthropology of the State. A Reader. Oxford and Malden: Blackwell, pp. 1–41. Warnier, J.P. 2011. ‘Territorialization and the Politics of Autochthony’, in H. Anheier and Y. Raj Isar (eds), Heritage, Memory and Identity. The Culture and Globalization Series 4. London, Thousand Oaks and New Delhi: Sage, pp. 94–105.

Epilogue Moving Places Relations, Return and Belonging Sarah Green

Overall, Moving Places turns out to be about the mobility and immobility of concepts as much as it is about places. Some terms previously assumed to imply a spatial fixity (e.g., roots or home) turn out to be mobile, at least occasionally; a word that might have axiomatically implied mobility (e.g., nomads) turns out also to imply fixity in some cases; mobility itself often appears in these texts in a variety of guises, often simultaneously implying a return, lack of movement or a kind of fixed belonging, even in the process of movement. Across time, space and peoples, the chapters show how this idea of movement changes. However, this does not imply that places, people and things are constantly in a state of flux, never in place for long enough for anyone to say anything about them. On the contrary, many of the chapters describe or assert a fixity around which the changes circulate, something that generates continuity irrespective of whatever else might be changing. To my mind, the contribution of this collection lies in its exploration of what is held in place (as it were) for long enough to understand the changes occurring around it. Here, I am using the term ‘place’ to refer to a location that is fixed by all the relations it involves. It might help to think of this metaphorically for a moment (but not for long; there is often too much use of metaphor in speaking of spatial arrangements). Imagine an object, for example a wooden box, suspended in the middle of a room with ropes that

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are tied around the box at one end and attached to hooks in the walls and ceiling at the other end. The box is held in place, in the middle of the room, by the ropes and by the connection of the ropes to the hooks and the walls and ceiling; if the ropes are cut or moved, the location of the box changes. But not everything changes: the ropes are still ropes, and not steel rods; the box is still in the room and not elsewhere. One could also imagine the box as being connected to a system of pulleys, so that it can be pulled up and down or along the ropes. In that case, there would be plenty of movement: a constant shift of location; but the relationship between the ropes, the box and the room remains the same. It would only change substantially if the box was cut free from the ropes and was to fall to the floor. In short, a key element in understanding the relation between place, location, movement and people (and their relations), is what stays the same while change occurs. This is often forgotten, even if it is straightforward in logical terms: in order to recognize an entity (a place, a people, an activity) as having changed, something about it has to stay the same; if everything changed, there would be no recognition of any relation between the previous entity and the later one. So, in answering the question of what determines the meaning of movement, for people and/or for places, which all of the chapters address in one way or another, the collection also identifies what stays the same. Most often, this is either something social, such as the form of kinship in which people engage; or something conceptual, such as a particular cosmology or cultural approach towards belonging and movement. The chapters do not always examine what causes the changes that are described. Often, these changes involve some kind of historical event that was either unexpected or not directly related to the peoples studied. However, they all examine how people engage with these changes and make sense of them, for which the element that remains the same needs to be understood. In almost half of the chapters, the changes in question concern the historical and/or contemporary conditions of one or other part of former Yugoslavia (Repič, Kozorog, Janko Spreizer and Lofranco), which provides an additional thread through the book. Former Yugoslavia has undergone a particular experience of relocation in recent years, a shift in both its own internal borders and its relations with the rest of the world. In that process, the relations between people and place changed in a range of ways, but not always with the results that the people involved expected. All of these changes affected the ability of people to move, as well as the meaning or relevance of that movement. The chapters show that the issue of what changes and what

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stays the same in that situation is not always self-evident. Lofranco’s chapter, which specifically looks at two districts of Sarajevo that were divided by the Dayton agreement, explores what happens when borders as well as people are moved from one location to another. In this case, the new local authorities replaced some street names with different names that were copied from the part of the city that now belonged to a different political entity. Lofranco argues that this was intended to recreate a sense of the whole city which had now been politically subdivided. Such efforts resulted in totally confusing the resident population: they – literally and metaphorically – no longer knew where they were, for street names that belonged to a different part of the city were now appearing on their side of the city. Drawing on Appadurai, Lofranco argues that the new arrangements (which also involved many new restrictions on movement, as well as a change in the location of services) involved a shift in locality, a change in a sense of the quality of place. Judging from Lofranco’s description of the confusion caused by the name changes, there also appears to have been a change in location in the more literal sense. Here, it is worth considering for a moment the difference in the concept of ‘locality’ on the one hand and ‘location’ on the other. Appadurai describes locality as being ‘primarily relational and contextual rather than … scalar or spatial’ (Appadurai 1995: 178). In this usage, locality is an abstraction describing a quality, rather than a word that relates to somewhere in particular. A sense of this distinction is understood from the difference between saying, ‘That is a good locality’ as opposed to ‘That is a good location’. A good locality refers to the quality of what is described as being good; a good location draws attention to its spatial positioning. In the case of Lofranco’s study, it seems that a shift in the location of their part of the city (through being cut off from the other half), in the more literal spatial sense of being somewhere in particular, was equally significant, at the very least in practical terms. Exclusion from previously accessible municipal and public services and facilities is a simple example. In analytical terms, the difference is significant: the changes made in Sarajevo following the end of the conflict did not simply have an effect on people’s imaginations or their understanding of what was going on, and the change in street names was not only a matter of semiotic displacement: the changes altered where people are in the world, the value of that location and, in this case, it also meant that they regularly got lost trying to find their way from one side of their town to the other.

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Repič’s chapter goes a bit further back historically to study the consequences of conflict for Slovenians who fled to Argentina as a result of the violence and war crimes that were committed during the Second World War. Repič found that many Slovenians in Argentina built upon, developed and retained a story of their oppression, and there was a great deal of social pressure for people to marry within the Slovenian expatriate community, rather than with Argentinians. Here, the main tropes that Repič examines are moral outrage (the people were forcibly exiled from their former homes because of atrocities enacted against them) and a kind of myth-making built upon the determination to retain Slovenian identity in the face of this terrible history, a kind of resistance to their disappearance, as a sign of defiance against what was done to them: a demonstration that they have survived. At the same time, of course, Slovenia changed and, since the mid1990s, when it was possible for Slovenian migrants to return and visit their former homes (note that the break-up of former Yugoslavia increased the possibilities of movement for some people, even while it restricted those possibilities for others), the level of change came as a surprise to some of those who made the return journey. Repič describes one woman’s sense of shock when she returned: in addition to reliving her traumatic experiences from many years previously, she found that the place was also entirely different from her memories. She swore she would never return. This woman’s description strongly reminded me of Gertrude Stein’s famous comment on seeing Oakland, California (where Stein grew up) after many years of absence: ‘there is no there there’, she said (Stein 1937: 298). Stein was, of course, playing with the semantics of the English word ‘there’. ‘There is’ is a statement of something existing; it is an ontological statement. ‘There’ on its own refers to a specific location. Stein was effectively saying that Oakland was not there or, at least, it was no longer what she imagined it to be. Oakland was not what it was, or what it had become, after years of absence, in Stein’s imagination and memory; it was now somewhere else, a different location. Repič’s chapter demonstrates this kind of entangled relationship between location, imagination, memory and movement that Stein captures somewhat more poetically. In Repič’s case, the memory of Slovenia was kept alive by keeping alive a trauma. When one Slovenian returned to her hometown after many years in Argentina, she relived the trauma and also realized that the place which used to be her home was no longer there: there was no longer any ‘there’ there.

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She said she would never go back again and, in a way, this would be true whether or not she travelled to that place again: she could not return, because the place she remembered was no longer there or, in fact, anywhere, other than in her memory. In Stein’s words, ‘anyway what was the use of my having come from Oakland it was not natural to have come from there yes write about it if I like or anything if I like but not there, there is no there there’ [sic] (Stein 1937: 298). The implication here is that Stein was asserting that there were no ‘natural roots’ to which she could return, no place that was naturally hers. She could write about her memories, but those memories did not naturally map onto a ‘there’, a physical existence in the landscape. Indeed, although the chapters in this book mention many returns, Repič’s chapter showed that returns are not always what they seem, and nor may they always be possible. Nataša Gregorič Bon’s chapter on expatriate Albanians’ repetitive movements back to what they regard as their hometown or roots, but with no plan ever to return permanently, provides a different example of the possibilities of return. Compared with the experiences of the Slovenian refugees in Argentina, the expatriate Albanians faced much shorter distances to travel, and far fewer years had passed between their departure and their return. Indeed, once you begin to take locations seriously in physical geographic terms, rather than only metaphorically, the importance of distances in both space and time becomes apparent. It matters that the Albanians making these visits to Albania were based in neighbouring countries and not located on the other side of the planet, and it matters that they began making these journeys relatively soon after they had migrated, rather than being forced to wait a few decades, as was the case for Repič’s participants. The kinds of tensions and ghosts that the visitors from Argentina experienced were absent for Gregorič Bon’s Albanian visitors. Yet there was also some overlap: in neither case was there a return as such. Gregorič Bon describes the migrants’ regular visits to Albania as a form of secular pilgrimage. For them Albania had become, like a site of pilgrimage, a special place to visit in order to renew themselves, to remind themselves of their own values and principles, and of their commitment to certain notions of belonging and identification. Yet there is no plan to return there to live: this is not a situation of diaspora. As Gregorič Bon describes it, the expatriate Albanians were in the process of transforming their former homes into a cultural site, a talisman, a place that provides a material reality for ideals and a sense of belonging, which helps to keep them orientated in their new places elsewhere. While Repič’s participants may have longed for a

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return and later realized that this was not possible, Gregorič Bon’s participants were deliberately reconstructing the relation between their new locations and the places where they were born or had grown up, redefining what it meant to be ‘from’ there, so that, again, there could be no return – just a pilgrimage to renew one’s sense of being. In contrast to any idea of return or the creation of cultural heritage in the place that was once home (i.e., a reconstruction of the past), Kozorog’s chapter on the jazz festival in a small town in Slovenia was about inventing something new, relocating the town to suit something different. The aim, Kozorog explains, was to add something of a cosmopolitan feel to the place, a way of uprooting the town from its ‘tradition’ and making something different that might attract the young people back to spend some time there. The most arresting part of this chapter was the tension between the local cleric who wanted to continue to ring the church bells while the open air jazz festival was underway: not only did a number of musicians incorporate the church bells into the music they were playing, but one Bosnian performer replied to the (Christian) bells by imitating a (Muslim) imam’s call to prayer, thus filling the air with a symbolic element of the tension between territories in this place. It would be hard to think of a more effective way to perform the spatial politics of the region. This one small example shows the importance of sound in creating locations and places; it is not only the land itself, or people’s movements across it and relations with it that make a difference (Feld 2012). Alenka Janko Spreizer’s chapter on the Slovenian Roma took a different position again. Unlike the other pieces on Slovenia, this told a small history rather than a large one: the story of Tončka, a powerful older Roma woman who resolved her own relationship with movement, place and homes. The setting of the chapter was a process of sedentarization of the Slovenian Roma, but the story centred on Tončka and the way she shaped how she related to place and location. The most intriguing element of this piece in my reading of it was the way Janko Spreizer makes clear that there is no contradiction between belonging to a place and being constantly on the move: the Roma whom she researched selected particular locations for building their houses because these locations were a part of the territory across and through which they travelled: the houses they built were located in their place, as it were. The assumption that if you live in a tent and regularly travel around you are axiomatically a placeless nomad is an incorrect perception, probably based on the fact that most of us live in states that require an address in order to be a proper citizen

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(that is, a normal and decent citizen): being homeless (i.e. without an address) is by definition suspect in most states these days. In that sense, Janko Spreizer’s chapter is an excellent ethnographic example of how the political infrastructure within which people live can deeply affect their understanding of the relationship between people and location. It might be better to draw on ‘location’ and ‘belonging’ instead of concepts of ‘place’ and ‘space’ when thinking studying Roma. Location is one way of identifying the value of being somewhere in particular, but it must be defined by something other than itself: location is not itself a space, it is coordinates; it answers a ‘where’ question rather than a ‘who’ or ‘what’ question. The value of a location (coordinates) is dependent upon the scale used to define it: if a group of Roma define a location as lying within their territory of movement, there is no difficulty in seeing that location as being part of the ‘place’ where they belong. That is different from what the state, or others, might say, but there is no contradiction in the logic used to identify their place. The other element in Janko Spreizer’s chapter that slightly jarred unexamined assumptions was her comment that many of the Roma she met hated living in tents and constantly being pushed off one piece of land and made to move on to another. Having a legitimate right to put their feet on a piece of earth without someone moving them on was highly desired. This is hardly surprising: who would like to be constantly driven away? The implication here is that the process of sedentarization that Janko Spreizer describes was not necessarily a destruction of whatever one might understand Roma ‘culture’ to be. Indeed, the implication of this chapter is that being in tents or not being in tents did not have a great effect on who these Roma felt they were, nor what they were. Being in tents or not being in tents fundamentally affected where they were, and that mattered because it changed their relationship with people who had never been in tents. Salazar’s chapter adds another element to the question of changes in the way that people move and the effects of that on their sense of themselves. He shows how, in the Indonesian archipelago, a form of movement known as merantau has historically changed in practice and significance, affecting both patterns of movement and ideas about locality. At the same time, what remain are kinship ties, which are, Salazar argues, the key to a sense of belonging among these people: people belong where their kin ties are located. The intriguing element of this is that Salazar’s material encourages the reader to consider what it is, in the end, that constitutes ‘change’ in terms of

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places and movement: if the core principle that informs a group’s sense of belonging remains the same, even if everything else about the activity of movement and relation to place changes, what kind of change does it constitute? This is tricky. As Salazar notes, merantau has begun to involve movement of women as well as men in recent years, a shift that must indicate some kind of significant social change. It is difficult to imagine that this does not also involve a conceptual change, which is an intriguing thought, given that Salazar’s material shows that social relations, in the form of kinship ties, remain steady. The question of the relationship between movement, citizenship and the state receives an airing in Thomas Fillitz’s historical study of changes in the politics of citizenship in the Ivory Coast following independence. The chapter demonstrates the importance of how a state defines the relationship between people and territory in shaping people’s experience of movement. As Fillitz shows, initially the Ivory Coast government defined neighbouring peoples in the region as ‘brothers’. The government had no concept of migration in relation to the country, so people could move freely and, indeed, many did. Eventually, after competition for land developed in the area, claims for autochthonous rights to the land increased, and the policy changed, so that people from neighbouring areas were now defined as ‘foreigners’ and many were expelled. The political process of redefining people as ‘foreigners’ in order to protect certain material interests is not new, of course: Abner Cohen described another African example, Nigeria, many years ago (Cohen 1969), and Anne Stoler described a similar process in terms of race politics and relations between white colonizers and the colonized for the former Dutch East Indies (Stoler 1991). Yet Fillitz makes a crucial, and often forgotten, point: governments create migrants, as well as the undesirability of mobility, by defining what counts as a citizen (see also Anderson 2013). Pirjo Kristiina Virtanen’s chapter on the Amazonian Manchineri people, who mostly live in the Manchineri reserve, with a few living in two local urban areas, provides a different example of the interplay between people and place. The reserve is another form of location: here, the government guarantees the connection between a group of people and a certain location, so that the place becomes simultaneously a cultural heritage site and ‘home’ for the people who live there. A rather more extreme example of how governments get involved in defining small, circumscribed spaces as belonging to certain people is the refugee camp studied by Liisa Malkki many years ago (Malkki 1992), and the contrast between a reserve and a refugee

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camp helps to draw out the politics of the enclosing of small spaces. While the reserve is a place that contains people who are defined as inherently belonging to a given territory, the refugee camp is there to contain people who explicitly do not ‘belong’ to the territory in which they find themselves: they have fled from somewhere else. As Malkki describes it, the idea of the refugee camp is that it is meant to be temporary; the people contained by it will eventually ‘go home’, will return to their ‘homeland’. In the process, the refugee camp acts to create an inherent link between a location and a people, a concept of ‘rootedness’ which, Malkki argues, underlies the whole concept of the nation state. Similar principles inform the creation of reserves, except that, in that case, there is an assertion of absolute connection between the land and the people, which is often claimed by the people themselves, especially when there is a perceived threat to their right to be on that land. The Manchineri are clearly happy to live in this reserve, given that the vast majority of them do so; yet the political definition of it as a reserve gives it a particular political relation to the state. In that sense, the location is not quite what it was when the Manchineri simply lived there without any government definition of the location, even though neither the people nor the place have moved. In this context, Virtanen’s analysis of Manchineri myths and cosmologies as they relate to the understanding of the meaning of place and people, combined with the subjects’ drawings to map out their region, makes for interesting reading. Virtanen suggests that there is a combination of embodied, relational understanding of persons, interlaced with an experiential and relational understanding of place for the Manchineri. The central home-place (in this case, the reserve) orientates the Manchineri’s understanding of other places. Using this material, Virtanen analyses the effects of moving between the reserve and urban centres, as young Manchineri are increasingly doing. A couple of the maps showed that their creators were not only basing the maps on their experience of moving between local urban centres and the reserve, but also on what they knew of a much wider geographical space (e.g., the whole of Latin America, or even the whole world), as they had been told about it. The interplay between embodied experience, cosmology and knowledge practices (e.g., knowledge of cartographic principles and having seen maps of the world before) came together in very interesting ways in Virtanen’s material. The issue of knowledge gained through moving between places also came up in Lulle’s chapter on the repeated movements of work migrants between Latvia and Guernsey. Lulle focuses on the

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acquisition of skills as a result of this regular activity. As people move from one place to another and back again, they find ways to cope with new situations, they grow more confident and they adapt their previous activities and ways of doing things to the new circumstances. Lulle’s ethnographic skill draws out the multiple motivations that people have for moving, reminding readers that the habit of border authorities to classify travellers according to one overriding motivation for crossing borders misses a great deal of what is going on. The Latvians who go to Guernsey are as motivated by curiosity and a desire to explore the world as they are by the desire to earn money for their families at home. This is a simple and obvious point (once Lulle has made it), but it is also highly important in counteracting multiple assumptions that result from migration and travel statistics. One could push this thought even further and ask what the difference is between a tourist and a seasonal labour migrant, in conditions where a large part of the motivation for the seasonal labour migrant to travel is curiosity and a desire to learn. In the case of the Latvians who come and go from Guernsey, the skills developed always include becoming adept at successfully negotiating the regulations governing travel to, and work on, Guernsey. Repeated travel to the same place and through the same regulations gives people skills that they would not otherwise have. This clearly changed these people’s form of engagement with their spatial locations; what is slightly less clear is whether it changed anything about their sense of being Latvian. That in itself is intriguing, for it points to the lack of relevance of such a question in these conditions: where people are moving to and fro repeatedly, the issue of how that relates to nationalist discourses that draw upon ideas about rootedness or fixity to a particular territory become more or less irrelevant, at least in terms of that activity and of the perspective of the people involved. For them, it is a matter of acquiring the appropriate skills to deal with the practical issues. In conclusion, this collection offers a rich source of material and analysis to think differently about movement and what it may imply for the places, people and activities it involves. The collection as a whole adds ethnographic depth to issues that are all too often discussed in abstract, or in theory. This offers an understanding, from many different angles, that movement and change do not take places away, nor make them fluid, nor make them simply, or only, a matter of imagination: on the contrary, both the materiality of places and their powerful ongoing significance for people’s lives shines through all of the chapters. The chapters also ask readers to question both their

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own concepts and their unexamined assumptions about the meaning of movement and the relation between people and places, and then to think again about them, which is a highly valuable contribution. Sarah Green is Professor of social and cultural anthropology at the University of Helsinki. Her research has focused on issues of location and borders for many years, and she has been working on the concept of ‘relative location’ since the early 2000s. She is especially interested in how ‘being somewhere in particular’ always matters, even in this period of networks and global everything, and in exploring how people’s locations, and most especially the relative value of their locations, are defined. So she studies the political, social, economic, epistemological and historical dynamics of the process of defining the difference between here and somewhere else. She is author of Notes from the Balkans (2005) and Urban Amazons (1997), and co-author of Borderwork (2013) with Lena Malm (photography; additional contributions by Robin Harper and Markus Drake).

References Anderson, B. 2013. Us and Them? The Dangerous Politics of Immigration Control. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Appadurai, A. 1995. ‘The Production of Locality’, in R. Fardon (ed.), Counterworks. Managing the Diversity of Knowledge. London and New York: Routledge, pp. 204–225. Cohen, A. 1969. Custom & Politics in Urban Africa. A Study of Hausa Migrants in Yoruba Towns. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Feld, S. 2012. Sound and Sentiment. Birds, Weeping, Poetics, and Song in Kaluli Expression. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Malkki, L. 1992. ‘National Geographic. The Rooting of Peoples and the Territorialization of National Identity Among Scholars and Refugees’, Cultural Anthropology 7(1): 24–44. Stein, G. 1937. Everybody’s Autobiography. New York: Random House. Stoler, L.A. 1991. ‘Carnal Knowledge and Imperial Power. Gender, Race, and Morality in Colonial Asia’, in M. di Leonardo (ed.) Gender and the Crossroads of Knowledge. Feminist Anthropology in the Postmodern Era. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, pp. 51–101.

Index

A Acre, 126–27, 144n4 administration, 23, 120–121, 137, 199 state, 195, 198, 201 administrative, 148, 160, 163 boundary, 152, 154, 164 division, split, 152, 154, 155 adolescence, 143, 189 Africa, 14, 74, 197, 202, 218 agency 30, 44, 53, 113, 131, 150 agriculture 48, 50, 199 Albania, 10, 15, 63–67, 69–80, 215 Albanians 71, 215 Albanian (language, dialect, placename, term), 63–64, 66, 68, 80n5 Amazonia, 10, 15, 126–28, 137, 140 America, 8, 159 Latin America, 134, 219 South America, 95 Amerindian social philosophy, 132 anthropology, anthropologists, 3–5, 10, 21, 108, 172, 176 archipelago, 7, 21–24, 27, 30–31, 36, 217 Argentina, 9, 15, 69, 85–99, 100n5, 100n8, 214, 215 art, 91, 106–9 Asia, 29, 32, 74 Southeast Asia, 21, 35 Assis Brasil, 126–27, 133–34, 137–38 Athens, 67–71, 73, 76–79, 97 Austria, 87–90, 114

autochthony, 7–8, 14–15, 178, 190n9, 194–96, 206–8 B Ballinger, Pamela, 5, 16n1, 139, 149, 150, 163, 182 Bariloche, 88, 94 Bawean, 26 belonging, 2, 12–14, 22, 64, 76–78, 86, 100n4, 105, 107–8, 114–16, 121, 122n1–2, 150, 154, 159, 176, 180, 196, 208, 212, 215, 217 claims of, 5, 8, 13–14, 37, 71, 78, 207 denial of, 14 emplaced, 175 feeling of, 10, 36, 69, 77, 78, 98, 156, 175 fixed, 211 local, 115–16, 120 narratives of, 173 national, 162 place of/spaces of, 64, 105–6, 218 politics of, 14 practices of, 22 roots of, 7 sense of, 67, 73, 75, 88, 95, 115, 143, 155, 215, 217, 218 spatial, 195 spatialization of, 95 boat, 21, 54, 57 boat-dwelling people, 24 body, 10, 28, 127, 130, 132, 142 changes in, 48 expressions, 138

224  ◆ Index

movement, 10, 139 politics, 39n12 practices, 138 space, 151 border, 88, 134, 166, 183, 188 Albanian-Greek, 63, 66, 73, 132, 138 authorities, 220 cross-border life experience, 167 cross-border mobility/immobility, 164, 166–67 crossing, 4, 12–3, 30, 33, 36, 65, 66, 80n7 international, 166 Malaysian-Indonesian, 26 polity, 66 regional, 188 Schengen, 80n7 studies, 149 town, 127 U.S.-Mexico, 38 Borneo, 26–27 Bosnia and Herzegovina, 13, 15, 75, 148, 151, 152 Federation of/Federacija Bosne i Hercegovine, 13, 148 The Serbian Republik/Republika Srpska, 13, 148, 169 boundary, 2, 22, 31, 46, 53, 67, 106, 140, 150 administrative, 152, 154, 164 crossing, 30, 160, 162–64, 166 ethnic, 13–14 etno-national, 166 Inter Entity Boundary Line (IEBL), 13, 148, 151, 154–57, 159, 162–63, 165, 167 national, 150 political, 67, 188 social, 140, 182, 188 Boyanese, 23, 26 Brazil, 7, 10, 126, 134 brotherhood, 14, 194, 195, 197, 198, 201, 205 politics of, 201 Buenos Aires, 7, 88, 93, 94 Bugis, 23–24 Burkina Faso, 198, 199, 209

C canoe, 21, 127, 135 capitalism, 33, 36 car, 54, 67, 69, 73 cartography, 3, 143, 151, 219 centre, 30, 36, 54, 88, 92, 110, 120, 129, 132, 133, 136, 139, 142, 143, 163 administrative, 163 centrality, 10, 11, 111, 133, 142 centralization, decentralization, 114, 202 centre-margin, 8, 11–13, 128, 159, 168 centre-periphery, 13, 78, 108, 111, 120, 122n5, 164, 190n5 city, 162, 164–66, 169n14, 199 ethnocentre, 152, 164 ethno-political, 154 music, 114 of encounter, 10, 128, 142 municipal, regional, 30, 173 relational, 126 shopping, 155, 165 urban, 27, 127, 133, 134, 155–57, 162, 165, 197, 199, 219 village, 129–30, 132, 140 youth, 112, 117, 118, 127 Cerkno, 11, 105, 107, 109–19, 121, 122n5 change, 2, 4, 7, 14, 56, 110–12, 116–18, 120, 128, 150, 152, 159, 177, 189, 201, 212, 214, 218, 220 political, 155 social, 182, 218 spatial, 44, 111, 140, 156, 213 Channel Islands, 9, 46 chieftainship, 199, 200 childhood, 95–96, 158, 189 Christian-Orthodox, 72 circularity, 2, 36, 44, 78 citizen, 14, 34, 66, 109, 159–61, 163, 166, 167, 168n2, 195–98, 206, 217 citizenship, 24, 96, 194–96, 202, 204–7, 218 ethno-cultural, 14 national, 201

Index  ◆  225

politics, 14, 218 city, 39n13, 68, 80n2, 94, 107, 133, 148–52, 154–57, 159, 162–68, 196, 199, 213 classification, 139, 159 coast, 23, 38n4, 63–64, 66, 69, 70, 72, 75–76, 96 coffee, 133, 179, 198 colonialism, post-colonialism, 1, 23, 36 communism, 1, 92, 93 collapse, fall of, 67, 70, 98 community, 4, 6, 15, 23–24, 87–88 communitas, 75 diasporic, 9, 69, 85–86 migrant, expatriate, 51, 86 national, 39n11 village, 68, 71 contact, 7, 22–23, 30, 35, 108, 129, 133, 136 context, 5, 22, 24, 35–37, 44, 45, 51, 74, 78, 98, 108, 156, 165, 166– 67, 203, 207 contextual, 13, 213 local, village, 15, 127–28 political, 87, 148, 195 urban, 150–51 conviviality, convivial relations, 127, 131 cooperative, 63, 182, 201 cosmology, 132, 136, 212, 219 cosmopolitan, 12, 29, 113, 118 encounters, 113, 118 local-cosmopolitan, 107–8, 116, 118, 121 place, 11, 216 cosmopolitanism, 4, 108, 108, 109, 116, 120–21 jazz, 119–20 coup d’état, 194, 206 craft, handicraft, craftwork, craftsmanshift, 21, 130, 137, 198, 199 Cunningham, Heyman, J., 4, 149, 182 culture, 3–5, 9, 12, 14, 24, 27, 31, 35, 46, 86, 88, 91, 106, 111, 121, 136, 137, 204–6

culturalism, cultural essentialism, 3, 8, 9 local, 115–16 material, 65 of mobility, 22, 24, 29 pluralism, 88 popular, 109, 115–16, 119, 121 revitalization, 136 rights, 135 Romani, 177 traditional, 32, 39, 92–93, 95 youth, 106 D Dayton Peace Agreement, 13, 148, 151–52, 154, 213 deforestation, 198, 201 Dhermi, 67, 69, 71–72 diaspora, 74, 86, 94–95, 98–99, 99n3, 215 Slovenian, 7, 85–99 studies, 8–9, 86 displacement, 5, 8, 10, 12–14, 16n1, 44, 74, 86, 87, 91, 97, 139, 149–50, 155, 157–63, 167, 176, 184, 187, 207, 213 Diula, 199–200 division, 14, 64, 67, 98, 151–52, 154– 55, 164 Dolenjska, 178, 188, 191n11 Drnovo, 173–74, 178–81, 184 dwelling, 6, 12, 24, 68, 76–77, 95, 178–79, 181 dwelling-in-travel, 78, 183 dynamic, 29, 36, 54, 74, 135, 150–52, 161, 165, 167 of movement, circulations, 52, 142, 164 relational, 67, 141, 148, 196 sociocultural, 14, 69, 150, 154–56, 159, 166, 168 E East Sarajevo, 148, 152, 155, 162–65, 168n1 economy, 50, 106, 109, 121, 137, 199

226  ◆ Index

education, 25, 29, 36, 121, 133, 136, 140, 143, 160–61, 174, 178–79, 198, 200–1, 203 electricity, 174–75, 179 embodied, action, practices, response, 10, 32, 132 experience, 10, 219 knowledge, 99, 113, 140–41 relationship, 126 space, place, 142 emigration, 8, 50, 58, 76, 88, 90, 96, 202–7 emotion, 45, 52, 58–59, 79, 71, 96, 113, 188, 189 employment, 29, 30, 36, 38n7, 45, 50, 54, 55, 161, 174, 179, 187, 189, 196, 198, 201, 202 unemployment, 161, 203, 207 engagement, 4, 105, 108, 114, 119, 122n2, 131–32, 138, 141, 150, 220 environment, 6, 71, 92, 110, 136, 138–39, 207 forest, 132, 134, 137, 140–41 local, 30, 108, 113–17 rural, 35 urban, 71, 120, 143 entity, 47, 116, 161, 163 Epirus, 178 ethnic, 97, 148, 150, 198, 200 cleansing, 13, 15–52, 160, 167, 196 community, 88, 177–90 geopolitics, 195, 199, 205 group, 3, 24, 26–28, 51, 155–56, 163, 199, 202, 204–5 ethnicity, 15, 86, 94, 151, 163, 207 urban, 151, 154, 159 ethno-national, 150, 152, 154, 155–56, 163, 166 ethno-nationalisation, 157, 158, 167 politics, 13, 160 Europe, 3, 8, 25, 28, 44–46, 49, 56–59, 65, 66, 74, 78, 87–99, 111, 115, 155, 165, 166, 173–74 Europeanization, 79 European Union/EU, 45–46, 50, 56, 59, 177

exchange, 3, 21, 23, 25, 30, 70, 105, 127, 133, 135, 138 exclusion, 14, 29, 155–56, 166, 174, 178–79, 187, 205, 213 executions, mass, 87–92, 97 exile, 1, 85–94, 97 F festival, jazz, music, 11, 12, 105–22, 216 fieldwork, 38n1, 43–46, 92, 127, 150 fis/soi, patrilinage, 70, 72, 80n9 fixity, 3, 9, 47, 211, 220 flow, 29, 31, 109, 165, 167, 176 global, transnational, 4, 150 migration, 14, 47, 51, 202 flux, 4, 110–11, 133, 211 food, 57, 58, 92, 115, 118, 133, 138, 165 foreigners, 14, 70, 185, 195–208, 218 G gender, 22, 30–33, 52, 64 geography, 21, 93, 111, 120, 122n5, 189 power, 12, 67, 78, 128 ghetto, 88, 179 globalization, 4, 29, 32, 165, 175, 207 Grbavica, 148, 152, 154–65 Great Britain, 46, 184 Greece, 7, 50, 63–79, 96–97 Green, Sarah, 2, 11–13, 21–22, 28, 37, 45, 67, 77, 111, 113, 115, 128, 136, 140, 142, 176, 178 greenhouse, 43, 48–50, 56 Guernsey, 7, 9, 14, 15, 43–60, 76, 96, 196, 220 Guinea, 197, 198 Gypsies, 174–80, 184 H habitus, 151 Hajj, 30, 33 healthcare, 160–61 heritage, 5, 109, 110, 120, 155, 164, 167, 204, 216, 218 Himara, 63–80 history, 2, 22, 89, 91, 97, 112, 150, 214

Index  ◆  227

family, personal, group, 73, 128, 131, 141–43, 216 historicization, de-historicization, 149, 159 of (im)mobility, migration, movement, 22–23, 26, 29, 35, 64, 87, 126–27, 132, 134, 139 of place, 70–71, 93, 128, 140, 157 home, 3, 5, 7–11, 21–22, 24–29, 31–32, 35–37, 43–45, 48, 53, 55–59, 64, 67–69, 71, 75, 77–78, 85, 88–89, 91–92, 94–98, 107–8, 128, 135, 138–39, 150, 166, 176, 185–87, 189, 211, 214, 216, 218–20 homecoming, 7, 12, 36, 69, 74–77, 86, 98–99 homeless, 178, 186, 217 homelessness, 187 home-making, 9, 69, 74, 173, 176 home-place, 7, 58, 59, 64, 69, 72–73, 77–78, 85–86, 93, 96, 99, 189, 219 hometown/village, 93, 105, 113–14, 116–17, 214–15 shtëpi/spiti, 65, 68–69, 72, 76–78 homeland, 3, 7–9, 22, 26, 28, 37, 45, 56, 64, 85–101, 136 ancestral/parental, 86, 94, 96 ethnic, 35, 38n4 memories of, 87, 88, 92, 95 myth/mythology of, 86, 88, 97 return to, 86, 88, 91, 94, 219 hope, 35, 92, 109, 116–21 horse, 176, 179, 181, 183–85, 188 horticulture, 47–48, 50, 52 hospitality, 195, 197–98, 201, 205 Houphouët-Boigny, 194, 197–200, 202, 205 house, 47–49, 52, 54, 57, 63, 65, 67–69, 71–73, 77, 92–94, 129–30, 135, 138, 140, 157, 162, 172, 176, 180–81, 184–86, 188–89, 199, 216 household, 23, 26, 31, 127, 129, 161, 187, 203 human, 4, 6, 7, 9, 60, 76, 127–32, 139– 42, 155, 159, 177, 203

non-human, 127–29, 121–32, 135– 36, 140–41 hunt, hunting, 10, 130–32, 135, 137, 140, 143 I Iban, 26, 27 identity, 3, 9, 13–14, 23, 31, 73–74, 78, 86, 91, 95–98, 118, 150, 157–58, 167 card, 130, 205–7 diasporic, 8, 86, 89, 91 local, 111–14, 207 national, 154–56, 214 IMF, 202–3 immobility, 2-5, 23, 31–32, 37, 38n2, 76–77, 86, 91, 155, 176, 211 (im)mobility; 1, 4, 12, 15, 16n1, 21–23, 36, 38n2, 64, 68–69, 72, 76–78, 80n3, 85, 110, 148, 154, 159 cross-border, 166–67 forced, 149, 169n15 independence, 23, 28, 46, 85, 87, 96, 114, 151, 172, 194, 197–98, 206, 218 indigenous, people, group, population, 126–28, 131–44 place, territory, village, land, 126– 27, 129, 133, 136, 139, 143 Indonesia, Indonesians, 3, 7, 15, 21–39, 217 industry, 54, 114, 120, 133, 199–200 agro-industries, 195, 199–201 deindustrialization, 162 industrialization, 88 petrochemical, 27 workers, 52 inequality, 2, 108, 203 Ingold, Tim, 1, 6–7, 28, 45, 67–68, 76– 77, 113, 128, 134–35, 141–42, 150, 182 Islam, 34 island, 4, 7, 9, 21, 22, 25–28, 31, 43, 45–60, 75 Italy, 65, 67, 73, 77–78, 87, 89, 100n5, 107, 185–86, 188–89 ivoirité, 194–95, 202–7

228  ◆ Index

ivoirisation, 195, 200–202, 206–7 Ivory Coast, 14–15, 194–209 J Jakarta, 30, 35 jazz, 11, 105–22, 216 journey, 4, 28, 46, 51–52, 64, 71–72, 76, 86, 97, 135, 139, 214 profane, 74 sacred, 78 K Kalimantan, 23, 26, 38n8 Kerinov Grm, 173–74, 178–81, 191n11 kin, 9–10, 31, 129–31, 138–39, 142–43, 197–98, 201, 205–7, 217 kinship, 23–24, 36, 68, 129, 136, 212, 217–18 Kirby, Peter Wynn, 3–4, 139, 150, 175, 178, 195 knot, 132, 134, 142 Krško, 12, 76, 172–74, 178–81, 185, 188 kurbet, 64–65, 73, 76–78, 80n4 L land, 15, 22–23, 64–67, 130, 142, 179– 89, 199–201, 216–19 agricultural, 174, 180 common, municipal, 181 customary, 15, 200, 205 rights, 200–1, 204 landscape, 5, 34, 64, 66, 79, 92, 95, 119, 136, 159, 215 cultural, 93, 101n13, 119 Latin America, 134, 136, 219 Latvia, Latvians, 9, 14, 43, 60, 76, 96, 196, 220 life, 4–7, 15, 22, 27–28, 37, 45, 47–48, 68, 77, 79, 89–91, 96–98, 128, 130–31, 136, 141, 162, 167, 174, 176, 183–87, 189, 200 everyday, 6, 76, 92, 95, 110, 130, 188 good/better, 44, 49, 54–56, 59, 185, 196 life-course, 52, 149 mobile, 2 normal, 175

social, 4, 31, 129, 149–50, 198, 207 trajectory/path, 9, 47, 85, 91, 96, 99, 133, 141, 142, 165 village, 25, 28, 73, 198 way of, 169 lifestyle, 56, 165, 176 mobile/nomadic/wandering, 173– 74, 178, 184 urban, 137, 156 Lefebvre, Henri, 5–6, 46, 76, 113, 122n5, 141 line, 14, 63, 64, 69, 130, 159, 161 ethnic, 152 Inter Entity Boundary Line, see boundary family, 25 front, 151, 154–55 Ljubljana, 97, 100n6, 112, 114, 118, 173, 190n5 locality, 2, 8, 12–14, 24, 46, 54, 69, 75, 108, 112, 118, 122n2, 148, 150, 155, 164, 166–68, 173–74, 176, 179, 213, 217 production of, 14, 105, 115–16, 122n2, 148, 150, 159–60, 166, 168 location, 1–3, 10–12, 21, 25, 29, 47, 55, 59, 64, 66, 67, 72, 75–79, 95, 106, 111, 127, 128, 133, 134, 137, 141, 155–57, 163, 174, 176, 178–89, 212–20 dislocation, 13, 156, 159, 207 relative location, 1–3, 12, 15, 22, 28, 37, 45, 77, 79, 94, 128, 164, 176, 188, 211–12 relocation, 57, 141, 207, 212 shift of, 31, 37, 148, 152, 162, 167, 212 Loke, 174, 178–79 London, 43, 57 Lukavica, 148, 152, 154–69 M Madeira, 48, 56 Malaysia, 29, 41–42 Manchineri, 126–47

Index  ◆  229

map, 1–3, 11, 18, 23, 46, 93, 118, 122n5, 133–34, 141–44, 152–53, 178, 184, 215, 219 geomorphological, 79 mapping, 75, 94, 177, 178 remapping, 152, 163 marginality, 11–13, 18, 42, 61–62, 81, 114, 123, 125, 145, 175–76, 178–80, 187, 192 mass graves, 87–88 Massey, Doreen, 7, 12, 196, 207, 210 Mecca, 30, 34, 112 media, 29–30, 33, 39n11, 87, 106, 112–13, 119, 134, 199, 203 medicinal plants, 183–84 memory, 51, 95, 97–98, 115, 132, 141–42, 157–58, 173, 182–83, 188, 214–15 social, 7, 9, 75, 85–87, 89, 91, 93, 95, 97–99, 99n1 merantau, 3, 21, 24–29, 31, 34, 36–37, 38n6, 65, 217–18 Meratus, 23, 38n8 meshwork, 1, 76–77, 85, 126, 128, 134, 142–43, 182 migrant worlds, 45, 59 migrants, 2–3, 7, 9–10, 12, 28, 31–32, 35, 42, 45, 47–50, 52–54, 56, 58, 182, 197–201, 205, 207, 208n1, 208n5, 218, 220 Albanian, 63–84 Eastern European, 51, 53, 58 female, 32–33 labour, 33, 39n12, 58–59, 220 Latvian, 43–62 return, 96, 99n2 Slovenian, 85–104 transnational, 33, 55, 59 migration, 2–4, 8, 10–11, 14–15, 21, 23–24, 27–29, 33, 37, 44–47, 50–51, 53, 58–59, 65, 76, 78, 86–88, 90–92, 96, 98, 99n2, 100n4–n5, 100n8, 101n16, 101n18, 127, 139, 149, 163, 174, 180, 190, 195, 197, 200, 202, 206, 218, 220 circular, 24, 44, 45, 50, 56, 58, 78

emigration, 8, 50, 58, 76, 88, 90, 96, 101, 202, 207 forced, 5, 150 immigration, 8, 15, 88, 197, 202 labour, 8, 23, 56, 58 remigration, 195–96, 201–2, 207 return, 8, 10, 18, 61, 85, 87, 95–96, 99n2 military, 14, 151, 152, 158 paramilitary, 151, 158 Minangkabau, 23–26, 41 mobility, 15, 29, 32, 59 circular, 3, 36, 37, 39n14 geographical, 22, 34, 36, 56 forced, 110, 148–49, 169 inter-island, 21–22, 31, 36 labour, 26–27, 30–31 return, 85, 89, 92–99 women, 31–32, 38n8 modernity, 4, 12, 14, 28, 33–35, 39n10–n12, 49, 111, 144, 169, 193, 195–96, 206–8 Moamoadate reserve, 126, 130 Monument, 97, 109 Mostar, 154, 155 movement, 1, 160 body, 10, 130, 132, 139 brokering, 30–33 circular, 2, 21, 28 -enclosure continuum, 150, 167 continuous, 65, 67, 78, 128, 132, 142, 184, 188 embodied, 79, 142 everyday, 163–64 experiences of, 4, 10, 14–15, 155, 157, 218–19 forced, 110, 160 free, 44–45, 59, 110, 159, 166, 194 geomorphological, 1, 79 indigenous, 22, 36, 127 individual, 160, 167, 176 international, 56 lack of, 11, 36, 211 lines of, 85–87, 139 Manchineri, 133, 135–36 migration and, 2, 23, 29 migratory, 29, 95, 198 mobility and, 2, 8, 10, 64

230  ◆ Index

(non)movement, 15, 63, 64, 72, 76–79, 80n3 patterns of, 36, 163, 167, 195, 206, 208, 217 physical, 54, 64, 135 return, 8, 10, 71, 78, 207 and settlement, 173, 175–76 spatial, 1, 99, 169, 197, 201 and stasis, 7, 76 temporality of, 7, 77, 137, 139 translocal, 22, 26, 32 mountain, 66–68, 72, 97, 109, 164, 183 music, 11, 29, 74, 92–93, 105–7, 109, 112, 114, 116, 120, 165 jazz, 116, 119 musicians, 111–12, 119, 216 Muslim, 36, 148, 154, 158 Muslims, 36, 72, 152, 159, 168n2, 216 Young, 169n7 multiple, 7, 31, 43, 58, 64, 72, 108, 142, 150, 155, 167, 176, 187, 220 links, 39n10 multi-directional, 55, 58, 59 multi-layered, 58, 59 multi-local, 95, 185 multi-placedness, 9, 86 myth, 9, 11, 85–86, 94–95, 97, 101, 115, 128–29, 187, 214, 219 mythology, 9, 27, 85–87, 89, 91, 93–95, 98–99, 141 mythical, 90, 92, 94, 204 of restless nomads, 11, 109n9, 187 of return, 9, 85–86, 91, 94–95, 98 N narrative, 9, 12, 29, 34, 45, 51, 77, 85–86, 89, 91–92, 94, 98, 106, 110–11, 115, 121, 129, 172–73, 176, 180, 186–89 nation state, 8, 14, 24, 29–30, 148, 203, 219 nature, 4, 51, 56, 74, 95, 159 neighbourhood, 148, 154–55, 157, 160–64, 166–67, 169n8, 200 urban, 88, 114, 120–21, 127, 152 network, 6, 21, 24, 29–30, 33–34, 36, 57, 97, 108, 165, 199–200, 221

nomadic, 173–74, 176, 178, 182–83, 187, 189 nomadism, 175–76, 187, 189 Romani, 172, 178 nomads, 24, 172, 175, 177–78, 190n9, 211, 216 O organization, 87–88, 134, 162, 167 reorganization, 127, 150, 159 spatial, 14, 127 organizational, 88, 96, 106 P pain, 64, 80n8 painful, 65, 72, 93 Panayia, 72, 76 partisans, 87, 90, 100n7 path, 12, 34, 67, 72–73, 130–31, 133, 135, 143, 143n2, 174, 183–84, 188–89 fluvial, 130–31 pathways, 77, 143 peasant, 112, 198, 201 periphery, 11, 13, 24, 107–8, 111, 114, 120–21, 174, 180 peripherality, 11, 114, 118 peripheral, 11, 58, 78, 116, 120, 174 personhood, 127, 130, 141–42 perspective, 6–7, 13, 108, 115, 130, 139, 149, 150–51, 162, 176, 180, 195–96, 220 emic, 8, 86 pilgrimage, 8, 10, 30, 34, 64, 72–76, 78, 85–86, 96–98, 215–16 place, 1–5, 9–15, 21–23, 28, 31, 33–35, 44–46, 49–52, 55–59, 63–65, 68–69, 71–73, 76–79, 85–87, 93–95, 97–99, 105–7, 109–18, 120–21, 126, 128–30, 132–35, 138–43, 149–52, 155–57, 159, 161, 163–68, 172–79, 181–88, 196, 206–7, 211–21 experiences of, 2, 58, 94 imaginaries of, 78, 98 -making, 2, 5–8, 15, 21, 44, 75, 113– 16, 126–27, 139, 142–43, 150, 155, 167, 180, 189, 200

Index  ◆  231

marginal, 12, 173, 176 moving, 2, 12, 15, 44, 58, 66–67, 148, 211 relational, 128, 140 urban, 141, 151, 164, 167 workplace, 47, 55, 56 plantation, 27, 70, 195, 198–200 point of view, 108, 132 police, 137, 181–82, 184–85, 188, 202 policy, 11, 88, 137, 173, 177–79, 187, 218 postcolonial, 23, 200 Portuguese, 48, 130 postsocialist, 44, 113 power, 2, 6, 14–15, 25, 31–32, 87, 113, 115, 118, 131–33, 135–40, 142, 148–49, 151–52, 154, 156, 160, 172, 185–86, 188, 195–97, 200, 205 empowering, 33, 57–58, 110, 113, 116–17, 119 geography of/geometries, 12, 67, 78, 111, 128, 136 powerful, 33, 197, 216, 220 relations of, 14, 87, 111, 182 technologies of, 3, 178 production, agrarian 137, 199–200 of community, 76, 132, 141 cultural, symbolic, 104, 132 economic, 196, 198, 200 of locality, 14, 105, 115–16, 122n2, 148, 150, 159, 166 of modernity, 14, 107 of place, 6, 115, 196 reproduction, 128, 132, 138 spatial, 6, 128, 156 R Ramadan, 36 Rantau, 24–25, 27, 29, 31, 37, 38n4 refugees, 5, 12, 87–91, 215 camp, 88–90, 92, 100n8, 218–19 regime, 32, 43, 51, 54, 58, 65, 87, 149, 151 communist, 63, 69, 72, 87, 91, 187 migration, 44–45 political, 177, 186

visa, 66, 166 relation, 2–4, 6–14, 21–22, 29–30, 51, 67, 72, 74–75, 77, 79, 86, 88, 94–96, 99, 106–7, 113–14, 122, 126–29, 131–32, 135–40, 179–82, 186, 188–89, 211–12, 216, 218, 221 economic, 73, 78 power, 14, 87, 111, 149 political, 133–34, 219 social, 1, 39n11, 69, 75, 78, 128, 133, 140, 207, 218 spatial, 1, 9, 14, 85, 100n8, 134, 155, 196, 218 temporal, 10, 98 relationality, 7, 9, 13, 128, 142, 164 relative locations, 1, 3, 15, 22, 28, 37, 77, 79, 94, 128, 164, 176, 188 religion, 138 religious, 22, 30, 32, 36, 64, 72, 74, 91, 93, 98, 137 religiosity, 78 repatriation, 8, 88–89, 91 resident, 13, 66, 109, 121, 143, 158, 160–62, 173–74, 202, 205, 207, 213 resistance, 4, 214 return, 8, 10, 22, 24–25, 27–28, 43, 46, 51–53, 55–57, 59, 63–64, 68–69, 71–73, 75–76, 80n8, 110, 117, 135, 139–44, 144n5, 156, 161, 189, 207, 211, 214–16 revolution, communist, 85, 87 rhythm, 7, 53, 64, 76–77, 79, 141, 149, 163, 168 Riga, 43, 57, 59 Rimš, 174, 178–79, 181 Rio Branco, 126–27, 133–34, 137, 140 rite of passage, 25–27 ritual, 36, 65, 68–69, 87–89, 91–93, 129, 138, 152 road, 23, 63–64, 66–67, 73, 133, 143n2, 160, 183–84, 188 crossroad, 12, 21 Roma/Romani, 5, 7, 11–12, 15, 76, 95, 172–93 romology, 11, 172–73, 187–88 discourses of, 11, 176

232  ◆ Index

romological knowledge, 173, 175, 177, 179, 190n2 romologija, 172–73 roots, 3, 7, 11, 14, 63–64, 68, 70, 73, 75–79, 85–86, 91, 95–97, 99, 208, 215 and return, 8–11, 86 rooting, 14–15, 63, 195–96, 202, 207 rootedness, 5, 9, 10, 37, 64, 74, 77–78 rrënjët/rizes, 68–70, 73 roots-tourism, 71–72, 74, 86, 87 uprooting, 36, 216 route, 7, 10, 22, 30, 57, 63–64, 66–67, 75, 78, 127, 130, 177, 183 S Salazar, Noel, 2, 22, 26, 108, 111 and Smart, Alan, 2, 4, 36, 78 Sarajevo, 7, 13, 148–71, 196 East, 148, 152, 155, 162–65, 168n1 federal, 152, 156–57, 162 sarajlije, 148, 150–52, 156–57, 159, 162–64, 166–68 school, 23, 43, 53, 68, 85, 87–89, 91–93, 97–99, 134, 137, 175, 179, 186 science, 3, 4, 5, 110, 172 sedentarism, 12, 177, 196 sedentarist, 1, 3, 9, 11, 175 sedentarization, 172–73, 175–77, 187, 189, 216–17 Senegal, 194, 197–98 Serbia, 13, 88, 148, 151–52, 155–56, 158–59, 161–62, 164–66 settlement, 24, 35, 37, 44–45, 51, 56, 127, 143, 152, 156, 159, 173, 175–77, 187, 202 Romani, 173–76, 178–80, 185, 187– 89, 190n5, 190n7 shift, 1, 3, 15, 31, 52, 66, 120, 152, 207, 213 border, 154, 212 home, 3, 37, 64, 78, 185 location, 37, 79, 148, 152, 162, 167, 188, 212–13 shifting, 3, 10, 15, 22, 36, 46, 55, 128, 151, 155, 202, 206

Singapore, 26, 29, 30, 35 Slovenia, 11–12, 15, 76, 85, 87–99, 107, 109, 112, 114, 116, 172–73, 176–80, 183, 214, 216 Slovenian Homeguard, 87, 100n6 socialist, 157–58, 165, 167 Federative Republic of Yugoslavia, 151, 172 government, 151, 155, 160 socialism, 179, 158, 182 welfare, 160–61 Yugoslavia, 109, 177 Southeast Asia, 21, 35 sovereignty, 15, 195, 200–1, 206–7 sovereign, 24, 194, 197 Soviet Union, 46 space, 3–7, 9, 11, 23–25, 30, 37, 44–47, 49, 51, 54, 56, 74–75, 106, 111, 126, 128, 130, 142, 148–51, 156–57, 163–64, 166–67, 172, 176, 195–96, 200, 207, 211, 217–19 European, 44, 59 geographical, 14, 47, 219 public, 112, 159 social, 46–47, 66 spatialization, 16, 95, 195–96, 197, 200–1, 206 urban, 13–14, 34–35, 152, 156, 159, 163, 165, 167, 204 spatio-temporal, 13, 53, 106, 142, 152 spirit, 25, 28, 34, 112, 127, 131–32, 135–36 spiritual, 36, 96, 136, 142 state, 11, 14, 23, 30, 32, 34–35, 55, 88, 111, 119, 126–28, 133, 137, 143, 150, 162, 167, 174–75, 177–79, 182, 187, 191, 195–208, 211, 216–19 border, 73, 182–83, 188 power, 113, 139 territory 148, 152 welfare, 160–61 Stavridi, 10, 64, 72–73, 75–76, 96 story, 15, 27, 43–44, 46, 51, 57, 59, 66–67, 90, 99, 110, 119–21, 126, 129, 134, 139, 141, 180, 184, 187, 189, 214, 216

Index  ◆  233

storytellers/storytelling 6, 67 street, 70, 110, 112, 130, 137, 156, 157–58 name, naming, 14, 152, 156–57, 159, 213 Structural Adjustment Programme, 202–3, 208n7 subjectivity, 12, 32, 34, 128, 135 Sumatra, 24–26 Sumba, 28, 31 surveillance, 182 symbol, 21, 28, 86, 92, 94, 100n4, 180 political, 92–93 symbolic, 25, 34, 66, 91, 115, 120, 150, 155–56, 159, 167, 187 symbolically, 97, 152, 157, 175 urban, 155–59 T temporality, 7, 9, 10, 45–46, 69, 94, 99, 116–17, 163 temporal, 9, 10, 46, 69, 75, 85, 87, 98–99, 142, 154, 184, 189 time, 2, 7, 10, 11, 22, 24, 28, 36–37, 43–44, 47, 51, 55, 58–59, 68, 71, 93–95, 99, 110, 117, 128–29, 135, 138, 142, 149–50, 154, 167–68, 174, 176, 182, 188, 211 and place, place-, 2, 7, 6, 15, 99, 140, 172 and space, space-, 3, 4, 7, 11, 34, 45, 48, 51, 55, 75–76, 94, 106, 142, 154–55, 157, 159, 168, 215 tent, 172, 175, 178, 182–85, 188–89, 216–17 territory, 14, 24, 47, 92, 139, 148, 150– 52, 154, 157, 160–61, 163–65, 175, 180, 204, 216–20 indigenous, 126–27, 133 state, 148, 152, 205 urban, 150–51, 154, 167 toponym, 155–56, 168n1 tourism, 8, 10, 50, 57, 71, 74, 85–87, 108–9 root-, 86–87, 97 tourist, 12, 55, 63, 69–70, 76, 93, 119–220

tradition, 3, 23–24, 29, 31–33, 36, 49, 110, 216 traditional, 25–26, 28–30, 33–34, 36–37, 91–95, 112–13, 116, 131, 136–37, 150, 196, 199–200 mobility practice, 64–66 practice, 3, 76, 78 traditionally, 21, 25, 26, 31, 143, 199, 207 trajectory, 7, 50 life, 9, 47, 91 transformation, 10, 44, 109, 116, 129, 132–33, 149, 157 translation, 75, 78, 140, 200, 203 transnational, 4, 8, 9, 12, 15, 22, 30–33, 52, 55, 74, 97, 98, 150, 164–65, 194, 198, 202–4, 207 transnationalization, 32, 165, 167 transnationally, 22, 165 travel, 3, 10, 21–24, 26–28, 30–37, 51– 52, 55–58, 66, 71, 77, 87, 96–97, 127–29, 131–32, 135, 137, 139, 141, 161, 181, 183–84, 187–88, 215–16, 220 dwelling-in-, 78, 183 traveller, 67, 86, 97, 108, 135, 176, 188, 220 tutorat, 198, 200–1, 208n3 U UNESCO, 109 United States, 65, 78, 112, 202 Upper Purus River, 126 Upper Volta, 198, 209 urban, 35, 37, 127, 151, 167, 180, 201 areas, 10, 126, 128, 134–39, 140–41, 166, 195, 200, 218 -rural, 27, 36, 111 urbanisation, 173, 180, 189 V vendi/topos, 69 violence, 8, 14, 87, 151, 160–61, 186, 188–89, 214 vision, 32, 117, 136, 196, 201 vitality, 2, 141–42, 145 revitalisation, 133

234  ◆ Index

W war, 4, 13, 14, 89, 91, 98, 148, 150–52, 157–58, 160–61, 164–66, 194, 214 interwar, 65, 66 post-, 87–88, 98, 148, 150, 155, 157, 160–61, 163–64, 167–68, 196 pre-, 149, 154, 156, 162, 164–65, 167–68 Second World War, 85, 87, 109, 158, 214 warfare, 135, 151 wartime, 154, 159–60, 162 waste, 23, 138, 174, 178 water, 67, 127, 131, 139, 174–75, 179 way, 25, 28, 43, 73, 129, 135, 139, 164, 213 highway, 127, 130, 133, 137 pathway, 77, 130, 143 underway, 173, 216 wayfaring, 6, 7, 28, 43, 45, 51, 52, 77, 78, 128, 135, 139, 141–42, 182, 196

West Africa, 14, 197 World Bank, 44, 202, 203 world view, 108–9, 120 Y Yaco River, 126, 130, 136 young, 29, 33, 73, 74, 97, 105, 118, 165 man, 25–28, 71, 90, 131, 138, 140 Manchineri, 133, 134, 139, 219 people, 71, 110, 114, 116–18, 133, 138, 141, 201, 216 youngsters, 70, 74, 113–14 younger generation, 71, 87, 91 woman, 31, 43, 70, 129, 166 youth, 73, 106, 112, 116–18, 133–34, 136, 140, 195, 198, 201, 204, 207 Yugoslavia, 1, 85, 87, 89, 91–92, 96, 98, 109, 151, 165, 172, 177, 183, 212, 214 Z Zagreb, 173, 180